18

Words by Devaki Jayal

Photography by Natalie Walsh

knit sleeveless turtleneck CHANEL

The train growls, baring its doors.

Parisian haste hurries in

And brings with it an onslaught of heady, monotonous fragrance.

It’s funny, they all smell the same.

For all our intellect, we are sold by the prospect of cheap chemicals 

Glamorising us.

And no, Parisians aren’t exempt

From the desire to be found attractive.

I unwrap my sandwich

And suddenly I am embarrassed.

The bread is stark and pallid and pale

And the sesame seeds too awkwardly dotted to be natural.

My molars grind, gratingly loud, gummy sandwich quicksands my teeth

And crumbs pepper my new (and I am embarrassed of the newness of it too) wool sweater. 

The slight wetness of mayonnaise at the corner of my mouth that I don’t catch

And make messier with the swipe of a napkin.

The shame is unbearable I’d rather pretend I am poised and running on nothing

In this train more elegant than I.

You would think we would not strive to show ourselves

In this perfect manner when all it takes is

One crumb

To set it off.

I close my book, À la recherche du temps perdu, title up 

To ask you for directions to the train bar in English.

My father is Indian, yes, a house in France, where je passe mes étés.

The gold necklace I wear is for 

“Me”

But if I wore it under my sweater

The pendant would not show

And so I don’t.

I did not need to use the word delectable instead of delicious

But I did it anyway.

The cocking of your eyebrow and the stillness of your cheekbones tell me you noticed.

Your knowing, man-hole eyes say

That no tilt of my baselessly proud chin

Or carefully feathered flick of my lash makes me poised.

18 shows, you tell me, in the quaver of your voice

That so quickly rights itself when

The train conductor hums in his baritone for your ticket.

18 shows when you ate your sandwich and the crumbs

That peppered your sweater made your

Cheeks flush fuchsia.

18 shows in the air between your words when I

Press against the walls of your knowledge

On that sub-genre of surrealism you say you love,

These intellectual embellishments to your carefully cut conversational jewels. 

I see you say this and get nervous

So to redeem myself I recount

The marvel that is varied academic interest and its role in furthering society.

Your lifted hand dismisses me

And my accolades feel like crumbs of pale bread and sesame

Stuck on my sweater,

Resistant to my many attempts to dust them off.

And when I stand up, I wear my scarf just so

The colors are bright and obvious under the lights of the train cabin.