I was sitting in the coffee shop and I put my finger in my ear. I could feel something in there, wax, a drop of water, moving a bit. This was uncouth, but how much decorum is left in this world anyway. Still, I should have been able to wait a few minutes until I was walking home. It, my index finger, made a satisfying squelchy noise. Of course, because it was happening deep in my own ear, the noise was loud. It was also a feeling at the same time. This was irresistible. At this point, the feeling of anonymity— not feeling— the realization that no one was looking at me was no longer reliable. I was lost— my full senses abandoned— in the squelchy pleasure. What was once like a very subtle nose picking had been replaced with a vigorous motion and a finger jammed in my ear at an awkward angle. Elbow pointed out. When I stopped, I took the shameful glance around but they all, the patrons and baristas, seemed oblivious in their own actions. Or they had looked and turned away quickly, like you might look at someone you are attracted to or something specific and revolting about a person that you want to like.
Before I wrote that I was reading from a novel. Turgenev was describing in detail a woman’s face. I thought because I indeed had a finger in my ear that if I described a character doing that action, it should different and appropriate to that character. I wanted to try it but of course the writing became a journal entry rather than a piece of fiction.
I did not check my finger for wax.
No.
Of course, I did.
With my eyes and my opposing thumb.
From the journals of Vika Amon.