Maps

I allowed him to kiss me square on the mouth. The room seemed to grow smaller. This didn’t feel quite right.

I was wearing my favourite pyjama set, which was decorated with a full-color photographic image of the Ural Mountains. My fluffy slippers were edged with delicate red stitching; I’d bought them at a market somewhere. I couldn’t remember where.

He’s invasive, I thought. He asks too many questions. First it’s “What’s your favorite color?” and “Do you prefer Chinese food or pizza?” Next thing you know, he’ll be asking about all my secret kinks and where the soul goes after death. “Do you belive in miracles, Anika?” Well, it’s none of his business, and I’m not going to respond!

We stopped kissing. I glared at him suspiciously. He smiled back at me, saying nothing.

After some time, I muttered reluctantly, “Thanks for coming over.”

“You’re very welcome.” Curiously, he surveyed the room. “That’s a nice globe. Is it new?”

“It is new. You’ll find that it’s completely up to date… you shouldn’t have any trouble finding South Sudan. But it’s a Chinese edition, so don’t search for Taiwan.”

Behind him, my peeling map of the Soviet Union was coming off the wall. Beneath it were several smaller maps: the New York subway, cantons of Switzerland, districts of Istanbul.

“Have you ever crossed the Bosphorous? It’s beautiful. The air smells of seawater and roasted chestnuts.”

“I haven’t.”

A silence hung heavily in the air. I gripped my stress ball, a squishy orb showing the topography of Sri Lanka.

He coughed, unsure whether to proceed. Several minutes passed.

“Do you remember what happened last night? You seemed pretty out of it.”

I remember, I thought. I remember crying, and screaming, and telling you things you have absolutely no business knowing. It’s pathetic, really, how I can’t even defend my own interests.

Gritting my teeth, I kept my mouth shut.

“Do you want to talk about it? I mean… about Shaun?”

“What?” I stammered.

The room fell silent again. He gripped my hand in his, stroking the ley lines extending across my palm.

“You were telling me about that night. When he came back home from…”

“It didn’t mean anything,” I said, my voice completely flat. “Should it have?” I kicked the box of clothes on the floor next to me. “I’ll get rid of these soon. Promise. You shouldn’t have to look at them.”

“I shouldn’t have to look at them?”

What was his problem? I didn’t get it.

“Yeah,” I muttered reluctantly, “As a matter of fact, I don’t want to look at them either.”

“Anyway. Shaun hated my maps. Said they reminded him of all the adventures I’d been on before we met. He was jealous, seethingly so. Used to quiz me about every guy I’d ever slept with… but that’s just how some people can get in relationships. You know.”

“Nah. Not really.” Shoving some clothes off the side of the bed, Ricky sidled up next to me. He leaned in for the kiss, but I pulled away.

“So what about Bella, then?”

“Bella?” Reaching towards the wall, Ricky ran his fingers along the Wakhan Corridor. “I’ve never seen a 3D map like this before.”

“It’s a topographical map from the 1940s. Pretty rare.”

“That’s amazing. Where do you get all this stuff?”

“You know, here and there. Rummage sales. The internet. Some of it I inherited from my grandfather. And that one,” I pointed at the opposing wall, “that one, I created myself.”

Squinting in confusion, Ricky scrutinized the page. “What kind of map is that?”

The rough portrait paper was covered in an elongated streak of red watercolor. Looping across the page from top to bottom, a valley of dusky purple stretched out just beneath the red-line buffer zone. I reached out and scratched it gently with the nail of my index finger.

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.” He wrinkled his nose and paused for a moment, before declaring triumphantly: “The Kyzyl-Chin Valley! I saw it online. That soil is such an incredible color…”

Oh Ricky. You think you’re so damn smart.

“It’s a self-portrait,” I said flatly.

“Oh!”

Turning round on the bed and pushing me against the wall, Ricky slid his hand slowly up my shirt. Cupping his warm hand around my left breast, he kissed me.

“Right. I get it now.”

Beads of sweat began to form across the surface of my skin. Arching my spine, I felt one drip down the back of my neck.

‘Anika,’ he said shortly, releasing his grip, ‘Why do you like maps so much?’

Ah, yes. Anika, why are you a freak?

‘I don’t know, Ricky. Why do you like football so much?’

‘It’s not the same thing.’

‘It is.’

‘It’s not. Football is something you watch with your friends. You get together and drink beers and watch it. Maps are just pictures.’

‘They’re not just pictures,’ I said sullenly, ‘They’re tools.’

Tools that tell the human story of everything. Tools that show us where one thing ends and another begins. Tools to help us fathom the unfathomable.

‘What do you think the world would look like without maps, Anika?’

I began to picture it in my mind. A neverending, rolling expanse of territory. Craggy hills, sodden valleys. Fragrant birch groves emerging from naked soil.

‘Sort of vulnerable, maybe. Mysterious.’

‘That’s cool,’ said Ricky, kissing me again. He was hardly listening.

Tired of resisting, I kissed him back. In my minds’ eye, I saw an endless white canvas stretching out in all directions. It stank of turpentine and was perfectly clear. Unmarked.

As Ricky pushed me gently down onto the bed, my eyes snapped open. There, above me, was my ceiling: pale, slightly dingy, mold speckled along its edges. In the corner, a cluster of dust and spiderwebs trailed into a hole that led precisely nowhere: through the crown molding and out to an unknown horizon in the crisp evening air.

It was the only surface of my room that remained unmapped.