A Love Like Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

age, and every wrinkled face in my life is bullying me into a rented tuxedo to marry my ex-girlfriend. However, the feel of coarse facial hair rubbing against my jaw arouses me; not breasts, blunt bangs, lace, or lipstick. I shape my mouth into an O like Marian Anderson. I laid Marian propped against the unpainted wall with twenty other framed photographs. In the stack, only one photograph is not my own. My hand bumps against a solid object at the foot of the bed – my favorite camera. The black enamel paint has rubbed off in certain areas due to extensive use. The way the camera grips in my hand builds an intimate shooting experience. I trust this Nikon more than I trust my father. Yesterday, I shot Brett with this same camera. Tomorrow night I will convert my bathroom into a makeshift darkroom and develop the suggestive roll of film. I cannot let Father find these pictures. No lie would hide the intimacy in them. Once the film is developed, I will sneak over to Brett’s with my camera when Father has fallen asleep. Like wallet, bus fare, keys, an essential, a camera’s in my hand or around my neck when I leave home.
    A paint roller, box cutter, five paint cans, white bed sheets, and a cardboard box labeled Carsten’s room are in the corner opposite from the door. Earlier today, I sliced open the box and hid all the beauty products inside the box under the bathroom sink behind a wall of cleaning supplies. Then, I snuck out of the house. Brett persuaded me to run with him to downtown Beverly Hills. It turned into a tour of his favorite hardware store, his favorite music store, his favorite ice cream shop, and his favorite deli, Havington, which is across the street from the photography studio. As we passed the studio, I pinched Brett’s puffy nipple poking out through his work shirt. He chased me into a verdant park that had a canine sculpture made of mirrored tiles. In the mirrors, I noticed the maroon blotch on my neck. I told Brett I needed to hurry back home, and I ran and did not stop until I reached my bathroom. By then, most of my neck was red. When I laid down in bed, I discovered Father’s scribbled note. He and my brothers drove to Ferndale, a suburb north of Detroit, to buy Ethiopian food at a shabby, sit-down restaurant owned by my ex-girlfriend’s uncle.
    Outside I hear the distinctive sound of a donkey begging for dried sugar beets. I bounce out of the bed, bang my foot against a moving box, and twist my neck to look down at the driveway. My hands sweat as I scan the road for Father’s car. His car is not downstairs. Another vehicle somehow made that strange sound. I sit down on the bed facing the open window and hold the camera viewfinder up to my eye, trying to see the image in front of me differently. The window like all the windows in my bedroom is painted white and double hung with eight glass cut-ups. White bleeds where the glass connects to wood. On the windowsill, a sun-faded postage stamp is stuck. The eighteen in the upper left corner is barely recognizable. Fathers are like windows. They control how clearly a child sees the world outside. Every time I stare out of my window I see a wedding between a man and woman. It is strange to be reminded of marriage every day, when I want to forget the word. Two years ago, Father told me he had lung disease, and he was afraid what would happen to me when he died.
    â€œWhen you marry your girlfriend, I’ll give you the business,” he would often say after that conversation.
    I would ask myself if I told him the truth, how long would he wait to do the unthinkable? Somali parents, who find out that their children will not marry due to un-African desires, are expected to set them on fire and spit on the charred ashes and bones.
    My bedroom door swings open and my hands jerk. The camera knocks me in the chin. Gray bits stick to the camera’s body. I thought I locked the door. In the window’s reflection, I watch my