Jessica E. Wragg

Tag: magic

My best friend and I, in the bathroom.

An ode to the best friendship that I have ever had. 

I am lying upon your bathroom floor, all cold stone and grouted tile, stray hairs of your flatmates caught in my fingertips and your bedroom pillow beneath my head. Staring into the spotlights my eyes well slowly, blinded by the brightness and you dim them, light a wilted candle in a vase which flickers in the movement of your towelled dressing gown.

“Don’t put your fucking foot in it.” You say, and I don’t, I move myself a few inches away and turn over whilst you get into the bath. You are a slim, small outline in the mirror. I am not supposed to see you naked, but I have, and you are wonderful.

As you lower yourself down your shoulders shiver and you grimace from the hot water and make me turn on the cold tap. I stretch to reach, I am not looking, but my face ends up dangerously close to the toilet and then to the plughole and so I roll over on to my back and let you figure it out.

And then there were are, listening to music from my phone using the grubby white bidet as an amplifier, and the bond between us seems tangible and touchable somehow as you bathe yourself and I listen to trivial details about your day, hanging on your every word as though I depended upon in, upon you, upon us. We talk about him, about her, about them, about that, and somewhere within the wet steam rising from the tub I think: how lucky I am, to be here with you.

We hold hands in the cinema, cuddle in front of the television, re-enact the sex we had with the men the night before using the cushions from your sofa, binge eat fifty pieces of fried chicken and wallow with our gorged stomachs. There is no subject too much, no small piece of stone that we would leave unturned for fear of shame or judgement.

We are two best friends, two sisters in the bathroom. Your body is my body, and my voice is your voice, and I am writing about it now only as a writer can, propelled by love and admiration, fearful that things will ever change. If I could only choose you for life, know that I would.

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Upon my body.

Take me in your hands of sugar
and kiss the tepid light, sweet
to the tongue and rhythmic on my tastebuds
like a samba dance.
Read my laughter lines and my love
lines and then tell me I’m going to die.
My life line disappears, somewhere
around my thumb.
Tell me honestly if I am sunburnt,
and I’ll let you know if I think that
you spend too much money on jeans
and beer and fast food. Peel back
the dead skin, make way for new life
upon my ankles.
Heal the scar on my kneecap with
your mouth, leave a kiss print in spit
on the joint.
My lips are dry.
My skin has stubble.
My nails are bitten.
My hands are rough, but with you
they glide softly across your back.

Origins

I wrote this piece as part of a larger project, imagining the origins of London and some of the world’s other biggest cities and the effect that human emotion could have taken on it. The environment and its decline, to me, is one of the biggest issues facing our civilisation at the moment in time, and it’s influenced a lot of my writing recently. 

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There is an ocean, which laps at my shoulders
softly. Prodding me, sending foam sailing across
my skin with every wave. Dull green weeds clamour
the base of my neck like a crowd at the gates.

Forcefully treading water, gently paddling the surface
for four feet deep in ten, my toes curled so as to
not catch the snuggle-tooth coral below, or perhaps the church
spire pushed from the sand like straight, proud shoulders.

And yet, for all the salt, I still taste the dead city.
The sea took it, replaced it with nothing, built water
on its rooftops, covered its head with a bed of sand hidden
between the kelp that travelled here by accident on a current.

The smell is not salt water and plastic and scum it is
saffron, jasmine, myrrh floating through the water on
a bubble of air from the deep. With every shift of
earth comes the perfume of a lost civilisation.

There is an ocean, which laps at my shoulders,
whispering a secret that I already knew. The stories
of children climbing buildings to escape the water,
their fingers scrambling on smooth marble to get higher.

Of the elderly women, so taken by the flood that they
took cups from their kitchens, scooped them up in their hands
and tried to drink it away, expectant and wrinkled fingers
grasping at the china, realising when it was too late.

It did not take minutes for the water to rise, it took
weeks, months – so long that the King himself
did not see it until he got out of bed one morning to find
his slippers not where he left them, but floating by his dresser.

Thin like matchsticks, thick like fists, buildings toppled down
like pins against a giant ball. My father told me the stories whilst
my mother hushed him through the violence. I came here first
looking for survivors but found only schools of fish. My brother

had told me that they were the people – turned into creatures
by the Gods for disobeying them but I know that they are just fish.
I know the stories too well; of a city up in flames, rotting from
the inside outwards, crumbling slowly into pieces like Sodom.

I know the stories of a city which did not see the flood until the
King had lost his rabbit fur slippers. I sometimes see them
on the horizon, still floating on the surface,
heading out in search of a new pair of feet to keep warm.

The Magician

It was as though the magic had worn off, like the sheen of silver and trickles of gold had dulled into copper and brass. I began to hate you when you were around and wished that you would disappear.  My mother said that’s what happens to all couples, until the hating takes too much effort and the loving isn’t worth it. Then there is just fondness.

Someone, and I don’t remember who, asked me what it feels like, to love someone that way. I told them that it was like eating an orange; sweet, little bites with snaps of bitter peel, smelling you on my fingers for hours after you had gone. They told me I was being too arty. I thought the description was good.

Letting someone in takes time and we were not very good at it. We tried lying on our sides in a park in Brixton, in silence. Not a park as such, more a stretch of grass outside a housing estate, feeling the hum and rumble of the underground below us. I placed my palm on the earth and felt it twitch. The idea was there. We looked up at the sky but the brown brick got in the way, and then it began to rain. Only a little at first, but then a lot, and we couldn’t ignore it any longer and took refuge in a local café; the kind where locals sit outside and eyeball you not to come in. It wasn’t inviting, but it was warm, and that seemed to be all that mattered in the moment.

I think I much preferred you when I was 12. When we were children you took it upon yourself to learn magic tricks. You told me in Drama group that it was going to help you become famous, that your mother had bought you a kit from the back pages of the Argos catalogue. I had wondered at the time how, if it was so easy to buy magic at Argos, there weren’t more magicians we knew; our classmates and teachers. My parents had it drilled into me from a young age that magic does not exist and neither does God, so I told you not to be silly. Then, outside the Shalamar chicken shop at Easter half term you told me to pick and card and pulled the same one out from behind my ear and suddenly I believed in heaven and hell and all that’s in between. I asked if the card was lucky and you said: ‘No, Emily, I’ve been practising.’

A few months ago I found the magic kit in a suitcase behind the wardrobe that we share; sponge balls and metal cups and hoops with links in them. I left them out in hope, but you tidied them away; ‘God, where did you find these?’

Back in the café, whether you knew I was watching or not, you turned your empty cup upside down over a lump of grubby sugar and dragged it around in a snake on the table top. When you picked it up again, the sugar was still there, and you watched it for a little while, wondering why it hadn’t moved. I stole it from you, popped it into my mouth, crunched on it until the sweetness became too much and shook the nerves in my teeth. I looked up at you expecting to see your eyes. You were staring through me at the posters on the wall. Perhaps you had made me disappear.