Chinese Water Torture

by Catherine Borovicka

Cheekbones are graceful. Everyone says so. All cheekbones, whether attached to a pale face, a sunburnt face, a face too squat or round or sharp, are perfect; they follow a line from the top of the ear to a spot parallel to the tip of the nose, and round themselves off at the end, smooth and polished and melting, giving the otherwise featureless profile a dignity and stateliness that can be further accented with the proper turn of the head.

Of course we never notice this - instead we occupy ourselves with the lack of intelligence of the guy next door or the hip size of Sally who is two pounds overweight. Eventually a repulsion for other people is created, and hence a repulsion of ourselves. Then, sometimes, one of us dreads waking up, so they avoid going to sleep and then they sleep through all their classes the next day. The weight of repulsion pulls especially heavy on those people.

It can grow or diminish in size, pressing lighter or heavier upon sleep, gnawing delicately at strings of tissue or going for the entire twitching muscle, repeating again and again, "I’m here ... I’m here ... I’m here..."

It remains like the drip plop of Chinese water torture droplets, and if one thing on earth is certain: the drip plop arrives on time and on exactly the right spot, yes indeed. Drip plop upon a spot of moist skin inches from eyes that suddenly cross, invert themselves, draw blank, and finally stare serenly forward at the darkness above them. Drip plop until twenty years later some cocky scientist discoveres an old basement and they break open the door and the room is flooded with drip plops, water to the ceiling, and somewhere underneath the masses of individual droplets there is a body strapped to a table whose heart still beats drip plop. That’s how the weight never leaves.

Sheesh.