When my friend held my arm, I have the strongest urge to slap it away. I could clearly see her pores, as clear as the fucking moon, and the sweat dripping out of it that reminds me of the syrupy liquid drops my mother used to force down my throat. They have the same urine-like color and it revolts me to think that it was touching my skin, her urine colored sweat rubbing against my arm.

She is laughing, oblivious of the discomfort she is giving me. Laughing about her cute boyfriend. Laughing about her five-year old son who has memorized the story of Goldilocks and the Three Little Bears. She does not notice the spit coming out of her mouth, the ant crawling at the corners of her narrow nose– they’re always there in your body, those ants, coasting the edges and corners and holes of your body as if they were surfing the great pacific.

We pass by a marketplace. A batch of melons catches her eye. Her son loves melons, she says, and picks through a couple of good ripe ones. She weighs them with her sweaty hands and she doesn’t see the worms, silky white and about a hundred of them, budging out of the melon’s soft shell. She doesn’t see the scratches and the things stuck between them, a person’s filthy nail, a drop of red paint that may be nail polish or blood, and another ant making its fast, steady run across the melon, leaving dirt and shit that no human eye could possibly see.

But I could see. I could see them all so clear. 

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