Creative Nonfiction – July 2019

CREATIVE NONFICTION 35

AMY BOTULA is an advocate

and teacher. Her work has

been published in The Rumpus

and The Manifest-Station,

and she is a former columnist

for PubliCola. She lives in

Portland, Oregon, but holds

tight to her Pittsburgh roots.

am penelope. I am the one who waits.

Instead of re-weaving a mourning shroud every night, I pick at

my cuticles with fingernails and teeth. Skin peels back, and scabs give

way to blood.

In the days of instant access—texting, pinging, GPS, satellites—it

is not enough to know he’s on his way. It is not enough, even, to talk

through the twenty minutes in traffic it takes for him to arrive at my

door. Here I am, standing in the doorway, looking left, looking right,

waiting for him.

I want his kiss. I want to fit in the nook of his neck.

I want to hear myself gasp.

at eighteen, I thought I knew desire. I saw it in Jim Morrison’s

leather or Frank-N-Furter’s garters. But that was their need, not mine.

In my twenties, I took control and hid my need for approval by

calling it desire. If you love me, we’ll fuck. You’ll see how good I am. So

worthy. You’ll stay. Ties on the brass headboard, black lace bras and

garters from Victoria’s Secret, candles scented with ylang-ylang and

patchouli, Mazzy Star’s “Fade into You” on repeat. Me, always on top.

AMY BOTULA

Past Compensation

I