Of course she didn’t use it right away, it was stolen after all, you don’t just swipe a magic eraser then turn around and start erasing shit. She’s not a novice at this for crissakes.
The swiping, you know. The magic eraser—that is new.
This particular magic eraser has been used (rounded corners, scuff marks, residue of pencils once loved now absent), but that’s not really the point. The point is two-fold:
Subsection A: An object from another human can (if you stretch your imagination and spend an inordinate amount of time in a fantasy land where you are not constantly alone and worried and doing that existential question thing that inevitably leads to thoughts of suicide, which lead to a methodical plan to commit said suicide, which is truncated only when you realize that mentally unstable people plot their suicides and you are most definitely NOT mentally unstable, fuck you for even suggesting that) retain that human’s essence and that essence can hold you so delicately you can fool yourself into thinking you matter.
Subsection B: The magic eraser erases humans. She is looking forward to being erased.
The essence of the human the magic eraser holds is from the boy at the shop where the magic eraser once rested and he, like his essence, is sweeter than anything she’s ever known. She will never be good enough to have that.
Subsection B: The magic eraser erases humans. She is looking forward to being erased.
Over the curb and through the alley to Walgreens she goes. By the row of bright blue recycling bins she pulls out the magic eraser—pink, used, like the kind you used in elementary school, to erase all that coloring outside the lines, you troublesome kid, you need to learn this lesson now, you don’t want to end up going through life coloring outside the lines, that’s a downward spiral for sure. She erases her right hand. The eraser crumbs fall like a tiny summer rain shower, leave polka dots on an errant ground-covering newspaper anxiously headlining today’s body count. She splays her fingers. She can’t see them of course, but she can feel them. She is infinitely proud.
Candy: Aisle 3. It’s a double aisle. On one side the imperative accoutrements for the nearest holiday reside. Today there are baskets with blue ribbons, yellow chicks, bunnies with pink ears, something blue with soup bowl eyes and stunningly soft fur.
She picks a Snickers from the candy buffet on the other side of the double aisle. She holds it at her chest. From the cashier’s point of view, she has an oddly truncated, unbloodied stump at the end of her arm and a floating candy bar at her chest. The cashier believes in the restorative powers of hallucinogenic drugs, so a floating candy bar, especially a Snickers (his favorite), is not a problem.
She registers the non-problem, does not associate it with a passion for mind-altering substances, and plucks three more Snickers from the front display because juggling.
While the card reader decides if it will accept or devour her debit card, she surreptitiously slips the eraser from her side pocket and erases her left hand. No bag, she says, carries the candy bars out the door
and to the intersection, where she keeps one eye on the DON’T WALK sign and the other on her erased hands and candy bars. Now she is juggling. She is juggling with erased hands. To the people standing at the corner with her, there are candy bars popping up and down in front of a woman who is inexplicably controlling them without touch. They are intrigued and slightly sickened. The city is becoming too weird a place to live anymore. These fucking arty types.
She makes it to the el, still juggling, and this is a personal best for her so she is superhero proud: her longest run of juggling and erased hands and possession of a magic eraser. Things haven’t been this good since she stole the electric pencil sharpener from her last job.
By the turnstyles. She hands out the unopened candy bars to randos. They are not quite sure what to think of unopened candy bars distributed by a suspiciously happy handless woman. It’s chocolate, though, so: duh.
She erases a few more parts of herself on the way up to the platform. Left arm. Torso. Eyes. Train to Loop: 8 minutes. Fuck it. She could just erase herself completely. So she does. And it is wonderful. No one can see her. She can blow in someone’s ear. Twirl another someone’s hair. Tap a shoulder. Lightly punch a bicep. Perform the drum solo from In the Air Tonight between shoulder blades.
On the train she sits. By the window. Contemplates what else she can do. Sit in on a secret meeting in the mayor’s office. Blow off security at O’Hare. Sneak into Wrigley, switch all the Budweiser products to Miller products, replace the Cubs flag with a Sox flag.
He sits. She only looks when she smells his smell. He smells like summer and acceptance. He smells like the forest and understanding. She wonders what he would say if she told him she stole his eraser. What he would he say if she told him she did it to be closer to him.
She reaches out to him. Touches his hair. He doesn’t react. He’s listening to headphones. He’s holding a book. His hand covers the title. She runs her hand over his, feels the ridges of his knuckles, his smooth shell fingertips. She’s about to wrap her fingers around his when he jolts and swipes his face a scowl and he
leaves. To the door. Looking quizzically back at the seat he just left, like it betrayed him. At the next stop he gets off.
Subsection B: The magic eraser erases humans. She looked forward to this.
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