Pins

He pinned me down. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission right?” Laughing. I looked at the collar of his ghi, he was stronger than me but I didn’t give up like the rest. I pumped upwards with my hips, created room between us and turned my hips, he clamped down on me again like a mouse trap. But now my arm was free, over and behind his head. He was gagging and tapping before I could wrap my legs around him and try to pull his head off. He sniffed indignantly, like a bull- red eyed and bewildered. We rolled apart and I nodded, almost cheerfully. He straightened up, as I sat back on the mats, soaking up the moment. Victorious. “Nice one”. And that was it.

Pins had followed me everywhere, so far in my short little existence. Diapers, hair, ribbons, tailoring, decorating, fundraising, waking up, sitting down, sewing, broken arms, describing legs and now Judo. The world is pins. All held on a cork board, unaligned agony that needles at us, inside and out. I was in a grade 4 class when Tomas got a pin in his eye, one of the tough kids from sat in his chest and pushed it through the lid of one closed eye. The other rolled about- I remember the noise and the finality of it all. Tomas had joked that the guy couldn’t read. 9year olds can be cruel, even if they don’t know what they’re doing. Tomas took up Judo after that I suppose, after the failed surgery to fix his eye. He looks like a pirate now with his black patch. All he needs now is a parrot and a peg leg. We train sometime at the local gym-

I don’t like how often I wake up with a dead arm, once when I was a teenager I lay on my arm until I got pins and needles, and then i beat off into a sock. Looking back at that sort of stuff is honest and repulsive. I feel like an animal with rolling eyes, I suppose there’s a time and a place. Bedrooms are weird like that.

I’m 30 this year, I have a daughter that I’m scared of because she’s so serious. I used to think that serious people were just malnourished or lost a loved one recently. She’s had none of that, no excuses. “Hi honey, how are you today?” I ask. “Fine father, why do you ask?” She’s 2, why is she questioning me. I look after her, feed and love her but she scares me. She’ll probably move out when she’s 9 and become a prostitute or something. I am afraid of her. Her name is April but I call her Apricot because i like the fruit more than the month. I was born in April, “what happens 9 months before that?” -July I guess…

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