Wetlands by Charlotte Roche

happening on the screen when they keep reminding me that I’m watching? If the man stands up, they only show him from behind. So aggravating. That’s how they lost me as a TV viewer. Only unknown actresses show their tits on TV. When somebody is running around with no top on, you can be sure she’s unknown. The stars never show anything. That’s the way acting is these days. Now I only listen to the TV—for my guessing game. I used to bebetter at it. When I was young and watched a lot of TV I recognized voices much better.
    I stare at the black screen and try to concentrate on the voices. No idea whose they are. I turn off the TV again. I don’t feel like playing. It’s more fun to play against someone. I’ll ask Robin when he has time. Which is never.
    What else can you play here in this room? Something occurs to me.
    I push my head back, getting the pillow under my neck, so I can look above and behind me. I haven’t looked there yet. That’s where the pale light is coming from. On the wall is a row of long fluorescent tubes. A wooden cover hangs in front of them to keep them from being blinding. I look at the grain of the wood and all I can see are pussies. Whenever I see the grain of boards lined up next to one another, I see pussies of all shapes and sizes. Like on the door to my room at home. It’s covered with that thin wood laminate that’s made in mirror-image panels. It reminds me of something from art class when I was younger. You put a blotch of watercolor and water in the middle of a piece of paper, fold it in half, press it together, then open it up again, and your pussy portrait’s done. I try to conjure something else in the grain of the fluorescent light cover. Doesn’t work. Just pussies. I ring the call button. What could I want now? Think of something fast.
    A knock and the door opens. A female nurse walks in. Actually she opened the door first and then knocked. I’mso generous to this oafish nurse that I switch the order of the two activities in my head so she comes across as more courteous. Robin must have sent her. I’ve got him too flustered for now. I’ll have to work on that. This nurse is named Margarete. Says so on the badge on her chest. I looked at her breasts first and then her face. I do that often. But I’m fascinated by her face. She’s unbelievably well-kept. That’s what people say: a well-kept woman.
    As if being “well-kept” represents something of great value. At school we call kids who look like that “doctors’ daughters” no matter what their fathers do. I don’t know how they do it, but they always look better washed than the rest of us. Everything is clean and carefully styled. Every little body part has been treated with some beauty product.
    What these women don’t know: the more effort they put into these little details, the more uptight they seem. Their bearing is stiff and unsexy because they’re worried about messing up all their work.
    Well-kept women get their hair, nails, lips, feet, faces, skin, and hands done. Colored, lengthened, painted, peeled, plucked, shaved, and lotioned.
    They sit around stiffly—like works of art—because they know how much work has gone into everything and they want it to last as long as possible.
    Those type of women would never let themselves get all messy fucking.
    Everything that’s sexy—mussed hair, straps that fall off the shoulder, a sweaty glow on the face—is a bit askew, yes, but touchable.
    Margarete looks at me questioningly. I’m supposed to tell her what the story is.
    “I need a trash can for my dirty bandages. If I leave them on the nightstand it won’t smell too good in here.”
    Very convincing, Helen. Well done.
    She’s sympathetic to my put-on wish for additional hygiene in the hospital room, says “of course,” and walks out.
    I hear noise outside. Something’s happening. Probably nothing exciting. The usual hospital things. I bet it has to do with distributing dinner. Here in the