Big Dump

I wondered if Thom ever thought about his stomach. It was there, whenever he woke up, covered up by a flimsy t-shirt and briefly exposed while he bathed before being hidden again; has Thom ever, I asked myself, took a good look at his knees, or elbows, has he ever explored the back of his neck vertebrae by vertebrae, examined each freckle and bump, memorized the lines with his fingers and eyes? Perhaps there were some parts of himself Thom had never seen, or did not pay attention to, or had forgotten.

I imagined him forgetting his bath towel and walking into the room to be confronted with the nude form of him, perhaps averting his eyes from the mirror and imagining that the pale body was not his. Or perhaps he stopped, in a fit of bravery, and explored his shoulders, and chest, and stomach, mutely, somewhat paralyzed, curious, astonished at how alien and unrecognizable he was without the usual clothing.

And if it were alien – undressing alone, what was he thinking – watching his fingers undo the buttons and slide beneath his waistband, did he feel reluctant to be a participant in such an unveiling, did he try to move faster, look in the corner of the mirror so just an indefinite shape would be visible to him?

And – was it different for him to have me watch him undressing, did he feel the same amount of insecurity, did he move hastily for the same reasons? Did he watch my fingers touching him, alighting the surfaces of his body he was not aware of, and learn to feel through communicating with me? Closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath, did he assign meanings to his body with the guide of my touch, and if so – how much of it was his, how much mine, how much shared?