Nails

I'm writing this to look at myself from a different perspective, to reevaluate certain things. I don't know how much therapy this will prove to be. I simply pick up a pen, nervously fill out more and more squares of an unnecessary notebook with distorted words, and glance in the mirror. I have a small, handy one, bought at the corner kiosk. Scratched on the outside, and seven years of misery inside. It can't get any worse, I grimace. The broken glass still clinging to the mirror's frame reflects my face. Barely visible pores—well-chosen powder. Someone else would say, "Harsh wallpaper.

" "And why do you need all this, you stupid idiot?" I say with hatred to the woman in the mirror. I look at those wretched nails. Damn nails, a nymphomaniac red on them, but they're mine. I like them, that feminine touch on childishly small hands. I never before imagined they could be a cause for envy, male jealousy. It's understandable to hear comments from friends, sarcastic remarks, or compliments like, "They look fake." But criticism from a man? They're just nails. Some physical element, an accessory like a decorative chain around your neck, a belt around your hips, or a handbag slung over your shoulder. An accessory that can be harmful. An accessory that can distort reality, send the wrong signals and messages like—long nails covered in red polish, a thrill-seeking whore. Paranoia. That color is just a cover. That polish is just the surface. And there are others, you just have to break through those initial layers. Scratch everything off to get to the sensitivity. It's red too. It's my heart, my blood pulsing with emotion. But who cares anyway. He certainly doesn't.

"I'm not a whore just because I have red nails," I explained to my friend. Or maybe I was looking for an explanation, any, even an illogical one, that would calm me down.

"Are you crazy?" You're feminine, your appearance, your behavior—a complete woman, not some womanly man. You know, they notice it, they like it, but sometimes it's exhausting. They act like dogs," Ewka laughed. "

At that moment, I preferred not to be a woman, not completely, not flawed, not at all...

" "Listen, it's all so shallow. What matters is how you feel about yourself internally. Although even here, you can have a distorted perception.

It's hard to describe who you are from the inside, just as it is to reasonably describe the tone of a voice reserved exclusively for us, the one our thoughts feed on. There are problems with that everyday voice, too."

When I hear myself speak, I sometimes laugh that I have a masculine voice. That is, quite distinct, perhaps overly confident, which immediately provokes objections from those I mention it to. I speak with a rather eloquent and relatively fluent tone, although this is still determined by how I feel inside. When I'm nervous, I muffle my voice, the words get stuck in my throat and struggle to get out. When I'm happy, I swallow air and giggle. When I'm serious, I slowly sip each word. I remember a situation like this; it was during a workshop on psychological methods of understanding people. The work was group-based, and during one of the workshops, I had to role-play a psychologist, an observer, and a client (patient) who came with a problem. The topic was given in advance, one of which concerned difficulties in establishing good relationships with men. My friend Marta became the observer (this role was unchanged), and my close friend Kaśka (we know each other very well) became the client, and I, sitting on a chair, facing her, was to play psychologist. After that, we were expected to switch roles. First, we exchanged greetings: "Hello, what are you talking about?" More questions, nodding, a whole arsenal of gestures. I felt as if I were actually conducting a psychological interview, and Kaśka, describing a supposedly imagined problem, was inserting elements of her own personality, dilemmas that concerned her. During a pause, because everything was happening so quickly, we had a moment for discussion. I realized Kaśka's statement:

"But you had a different voice; it changes so much. I really felt quite safe talking to you as if you were the actual psychologist.

" "...but what voice? Different? Why different?" I asked, and Kaśka continued explaining.

"Something soft, hushed, warm, as if you were tuning in to me. Inspiring trust. I don't know, I thought you were acting.

What struck me most was her comment about how my tone of voice seemed warm. I don't feel it myself, and I constantly repeat that I'm a cold, distant woman, which is reflected in my voice. Maybe my vision, or rather hearing, is distorted? I don't know. Then there was a change. I took on the role of a client who started telling me how things weren't working out for her with men. Because they really weren't. I hadn't even managed to fully realize the whole concept of the persona I was building when Kasia started laughing nervously, which was completely out of character for her. She was supposed to be asking me questions, because she was a psychologist now. But then she turned around and, giggling, repeated,

"I can't, I can't, because you talk so strangely, and I don't even know what to say."

I would have advised the client I was playing then: "Time to administer the medicine." Abstinence from men.

I just couldn't answer her question about why we women are so naive. Because that's probably where our mistake lies.

Too often, we succumb to visions of unreal worlds; they seem tangible, obvious, and easily accessible to us too quickly. Sometimes, like a therapist, I observed some of my friends, listening to their confessions and conclusions, which sounded very similar

: "Don't trust men. They only hurt. You know, men need a nanny these days, not a woman. A second mom, someone who will take care of their problems, pat their head when their back hurts. And it doesn't matter that she spent half the day in the hospital fearing she had an ectopic pregnancy. She will sacrifice herself, listen, in exchange for five minutes of simple cuddling. I know it's cynical, but it still happens sometimes.

I still remember the look on my friend's face when she told me about her relationship, when she was looking for support and objective advice. Some of our mutual friends thought she was a slut. People whispered in corners,

"Oh! We have one who runs on money, clothes, and expensive cosmetics." And I believed her, that she truly loved him and still does, though perhaps in a strange and perhaps not entirely understandable way. At my age, she looks a bit like a girl, yet she's married to a man in his fifties. My parents didn't want a daughter and a son-in-law older than them. I could only imagine how difficult it was for her. She grew thinner and thinner when he was imprisoned for tax fraud, and she couldn't see him. Twice-married "Tiger"—that's what she called him—tried to integrate into our group of girls. Of course, this works best when drinking alcohol in a pub. It was a funny situation. Everyone stared, making surprised faces as she sat on his lap.

"Little one, oh little one, little one..." he kept saying. In conversation, he tried to impress us with his extensive reading, eloquence, and understanding of the problems of youth. Dressed in jeans and a beige leather jacket, he looked like a quite fashionable grandpa, with a face a bit like Hemingway, serving his granddaughters round after round of vodka, instead of candy, of course. You have to keep up with the times, after all. And those comments he made when he looked at the thongs of the girls standing in front of him, peeking through their pants.

"What asses, baby, look," he said to his beloved sitting on his lap. And he was very upset that he hadn't worn the red jacket befitting a true lover. It's a good thing I made it home alive, because Tigger drove us home in his black BMW, quite drunk. As he drove, he explained:

"Girls, when I'm driving drunk, I don't look at the signs. That's the art of seeing the big picture and not delving into unnecessary details. The same applies to life, not just the road," he raged. "So why did he pay attention to young girls' panties and his half-baked image? And she loves him, she's struggling, and I believe her, I respect her decision. She miscarried his child—another tragedy. I just feel sorry for her and I don't know why I'm so angry when, talking about her relationship, she explains that it was the worst year and a half of her life.

" "And what's the point of all this, you stupid idiot?" I say, not sure anymore, thinking of her or myself.

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"You've got to be kidding. About stupid fingernails? Come on. Asshole," Ewka said. She clenched one hand into a fist and started hitting the inside of the other, as was her habit. I was always amused by her way of venting her emotions without even realizing it.

"How did you even meet him?" she asked, looking at me questioningly.

It was at a poetry workshop. It was held in a charming venue, a cozy gallery. I went there for the first time. I took the first seat I saw. Behind me was a bas-relief of Sappho. The poet, a gray-haired, elderly man with a charming smile and a winning manner, warmly greeted the guests. He bustled about, even being a waiter offering cookies was no stranger to him. It was the first time I had read my poems in public. I wasn't prepared for any presentation, but somehow I remembered three pieces and quickly replayed them, looking at the man in the black turtleneck. He was the first to applaud when I finished. I fell in love, simply like that. It came to me suddenly, like a winged inspiration. I didn't fight the feeling; you can't win against the will of the stars. I won't win now either, because apparently, I'm going to have a lot of disappointments in my life. Well, maybe it's not that tragic, maybe something can still be done, because the planetary alignment is fine – I've comforted myself so many times in absurd ways. My chakras are definitely out of sync, I'm sleeping on a water vein, what else? Maybe someone has cast a spell on me. I'll call a dowser, a clairvoyant, buy a good luck charm, and put a tasteful Buddha statuette on the TV. Instead of his picture, which he smashed during our last argument. A sensitive man, he spent hours debating the superiority of poetry over prose at poetry readings, a teenager who painted a heart pierced by an arrow on his arm with my name inside, a furious man when jealousy came into play. When he was born, his sun struck the star Azzulman, Arabic for "ostrich," which gives strength to strive for perfection. Perfection not only in creating poetry, but also in shaping the people he spent time with. There was no shortage of creative energy in our bed either. Every evening, exquisite tantric love, a subtle attunement of energy flowing from within, filling my body with warmth. I howled like a wild animal as he plunged into me. I begged for more. On summer evenings, we went out onto the balcony. And I wasn't like Julia Poświatowska, trying to summon love. I, so unmelodramatically at that moment, feeling the cold floor beneath my feet, howled for sex. And I didn't care about shooting stars, romance, or streetlights casting their glow on the road.

"My nightly you," he whispered, nibbling my ear.

In a subtle, camouflaged way, he shaped not only our evenings but also our everyday lives. During the day, I became a lady, a dashing housewife serving hot dinners. In truth, I couldn't cook well, and before making him something hot, I spent at least half an hour on the phone, jotting down tips from my friends. I understood his surprise when the bills arrived, but he didn't have to shout so loudly. After all, I wasn't calling my lovers, as he constantly accused me of. He would fume, hurling epithets at me. He had such a refined way of choosing the most vile words of contempt. He would end by hissing, "In situations like this, I'll only speak to you briefly. Get used to it." Then he'd turn to his poetry, caressing verse after verse, polishing metaphors.

"And from the side, it looked so nice. And you see, maybe you'll finally follow my example. No men. No male will mold me in his image." And even more so, throwing punches at someone for hitting on you. A fight over your nails. Good for you. Who would have thought he could be so jealous? Feminist tendencies were stirring within Ewka.

"And stop crying, do you hear me? It's better that it happened now, that besides the apartment, you have nothing else in common. Because you don't anymore, do you?"

The gentle sway of the music in my headphones. A calming monobeat and images that ripple with each successive note. It grew within me. It reached higher and higher registers. It reached the area around my eyes and slowly caught the tips of my lashes. Unpainted, because there was no one to wear it for. It tugged. Finally, it flowed out, oozing down my cheek, leaving a salty taste at the corner of my mouth. It carved an unnecessary grimace on my face, one that wouldn't wipe off like makeup. Loneliness. She sobbed inside me again. It's a pity there wasn't someone nearby who could hug me, wipe the tears from my face, whisper, "Don't cry, because I can't bear to watch."

To my Darek...