RIPPLELESS

It began with a pencil sharpener, the one the boy used in front of her that morning. It began with the incessant turning of those blades, peeling every layer of wood around the tip, smoothing it out completely and leaving that liberating woodsy scent behind.
        She couldn’t smell it of course. Not from behind that window. But she could imagine it. And it made her think about all the unnecessary layers on her, about feeling fluid and silky, so she shaved her head. With a polishing cloth and turtle wax she rid her scalp of follicles and sandy textures. She peeled her clothing items off afterwards, the latest fashion she had modeled since yesterday.
        The snow began to fall as she took her socks off. She watched the snowflakes pile on top of each other, covering heaps of soiled rubbish as she felt her rayon skirt slide down her legs on its way to the floor.
        She used her index finger to rub her right eyebrow off as she looked out at the sky. The storm was coming. The eyebrow came off almost instantly. It surprised her.
        Feeling the texture of her cold sleek skin, she licked her lips, wondering what it would be like to run over that perfect white blanket out there with her naked feet at dusk. She imagined the cottony feel of snow powder on her body, her skin bathing in that unwrinkled meadow. That was right before that cloud of ice froze the world in front of her and her fantasies immobilized her.

The boy with the pencil sharpener showed up at dusk like always. He stood in front of her, struck by her frozen gaze of wonder, one eyebrow lifted, as if dreaming of the sound his boots made as he pierced that creamy landscape. He took his pencil sharpener and sharpened his pencil before taking his sketchbook out. He began to draw. And as he looked into the eyes he’d sketched on paper, her eyes, he finally heard the silence around him and felt all her fantasies break inside him.