When I was 16, Nana slipped a note under my bed from the short boy with the pink lower lip, when Momma wouldn’t let me out. The next week she hit me 13 times on my backside with a wooden ladle, for allowing him to stick two fingers under my skirt. I sat like I was born with a body in disequilibrium for three days. That is how I remember my Nana; a deformed devil in an angel’s body. She doesn’t talk as much as she used to, and shoots peppery solution from a water gun at us because her arm’s too weak to be swinging wooden ladles. Some random days, I wish I could pick out the lines on her face and stretch them in my palm, just so I can live off her experience. But life would rather be a fake orgasm.
“Nana, will I ever find my soulmate?” I ask her softly.
“Child” she grips my hand in the palm of her weathered hands and smiles.
“There’s no such thing as a soulmate. You’re not a puzzle with a missing piece. If you want to have 10 lovers and call each of them your soulmate, so shall it be. If you want to have 1 lover, live with his 10 flaws and call him soulmate, so shall it be.”
I do not want to believe her, but I smile anyway.