FICTION
Annie at an Angle
by Ryan Chapman

Observe Sunday's Mass.

Kneeling prostrate on cold tile in the basement lavatory, Annie vomits the body and blood of Christ using the end of a #2 pencil. Her dress that day – a new purchase from Van Maur – is beautiful. It has floor sweeping frills, a bow in the mid section. Upon seeing it, Father Calvert elicited an unquestioned "Jesus Christ."

Her hair, too, is exquisite – curly and bobby, spirally and dippy. Before vomiting, she had stared at it in the toilet water, pleased. Before the liquid, before the chunks covered her face up, she was, indeed, very pleased.

The first time Annie had thrown up at Mass, the flusher would not work. She had panicked – fled. Her mother called hours later to ask if Annie had seen the vomit in the basement bathroom. No, Annie said. Why? Annie said. Why should I of? Annie said. Well, her mother had – in turn – said, apparently the vomit had settled in the absolute perfect shape of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus. Reporters showed up and everything. It was something else. Father Calvert blessed the whole bathroom. Oh, Annie said. Ha, Annie said. And her mother clicked off, leaving Annie, albeit her shorthair, Rory, alone.

Observe Annie, forty minutes after that call, examining the vomit from two cheeseburgers, two servings of white rice, three dinner rolls, one serving of pudding and a large glass of milk. She is on her hands and knees, staring into the bowl of the toilet – Rory brushing against her keds. I suppose one could mistake that for Christ's cup at the Holy Supper, Annie says. That kind of looks like Simon carrying the cross.or a rocket ship, Annie says.

Observe Annie's face.

Not now – here, vomiting in the bathroom – but minutes prior. Her face captured by the mirror above the sink. Observe her lips – full, red. You would kiss these lips at a party, nearly sober and happy, intoxicated with the idea of that kissing. Surprised, maybe, that these lips, these specific kisses are for the taking – that they open up for your tongue the same way they open up for Colgate 360's and plastic recorders and butter knives. These same lips that house stained teeth, rotting teeth, burns and aches. These lips open for your tongue slowly and you laugh. Your eyes notice Annie's eyes as you kiss. The pupils seem interested in the scenario. They move like pendulums. They are hazel like your own – a little more yellow perhaps. More like sunflowers, you think. And sunflowers are both exotic and rural, simultaneously. Ha – you laugh. Ha – your hands finding ribs, counting them, cradling bone and socket. Ha – you think, removing a cotton skirt, fingering a taut navel. Annie's dark hair, free from a pony tail, tumbles upon her face – thin cheek bones, tiny elfish nose. It covers her. Automatic, you recognize the beauty. The curls and bobs, spirals and dips. You recognize, yet grab, careful not to tug, and hold the hair back behind her head. Lead her toward your neck.

Later, when Annie is throwing up at a gas station on her drive home – her full lips dry from the friction of kissing, you will find strands of her dark hair on a pillow, and you will press them against your face. You will not call her in the morning, however, and observe how gaunt she looks at a bonfire three nights later. You will touch her shoulder, there, and everyone – even those drunk as dogs – will observe her lips as she smiles.

Observe Annie with a toothbrush down her throat.

The end of it, anyway. The rest hangs out of her mouth like a corncob pipe. Annie's hair is stuffed underneath the collar of her tee shirt – nuzzled against her neck. There, away from her mouth, the curls, bobs, spirals and dips will be safe from the vomit, tears, spittle.

Observe Annie's bathroom walls – a mosaic of late autumnal leaves posed in their grounding. Free fallen leaves – before the rakes, the piles, the childhood jumps. Notice their seeming crispness, the swelling of tight brown veins surrounded in the dull yellow coloring of a post-it note.

Observe Annie's right hand as it touches one of these fallen leaves, leans on it, really – as her left hand clutches, forces a Colgate 360 into the depths of her oral cavity. The toothbrush is a new device, what with the fingers having recently lost their persuasive touch – the gag reflex familiarizing itself with the imperfections of her nail polish. The smooth trails of her fingertips.

The toothbrush did not come first, however. There were kitchen utensils, office supplies, toys, musical instruments, even other varieties of food. In the long run, the toothbrush simply made more sense. It was already in the bathroom, already used for oral health, already forcing the food out of her mouth.

Yet, our eyes, now, are not on that toothbrush. They are not glancing at Annie's exposed collarbone. Not wiping the toilet bowl clean with their empathy. No, they are simply set upon Annie's right hand, which rests upon the wall, upon a mosaic leaf – index finger drumming to the sound of the vent, the toilet running, Rory nudging his nose against the door from the outside, trying to get in.

Stay there awhile with Annie. Hold her hair back.