In an attempt to get rid of the cloud over her head, Rhea took her heart out and put it on the table. She left it open, raw. Vulnerable. Exposed. She almost dropped it on the floor because, in the process of putting it on the table, that fleshy lump was beating so hard it looked like it was jumping out of her hands.
But Rhea took a deep breath through her nose, convinced herself that this would be it. Whatever happened, she’d rather face that than the haunting sensation the cloud had given her, even if it meant it would be hard for her to put it back inside her chest.
To add to the risk, exposure to the sun and the harsh wind could make it dry out. Its surface could become so thin that it would be easy to break. What would happen if it started bleeding while outside her body?
Rhea seemed fine with it. If her heart turned into a raisin, so be it, she muttered to herself. As long as it was out there, exposed. If that was what it took for her to get rid of that cloud.
A friend asked, “Why are you so quiet?”
She pointed at the cloud over her head and said, “I’m sad.”
The friend nodded but didn’t seem to grasp the magnitude of her answer. She was sad. She was sad because of the cloud. Not because the cloud wasn’t beautiful, but because why did it have to be now, of all times?
So there she was, parading her heart on the side of the street, on top of a table. Did it make the cloud leave her head? Nope.
In fact, Rhea started to notice that there was lightning inside it. She could sense the storm was coming. She knew then that she’d fucked it up. She shouldn’t have put it out there and let it be seen. Now it was too late to put it back. Its size had been measured, and its color had been painted on the sidewalk by the drips of blood it left on the table. It had stained the path.
Rhea looked at the passersby and asked, “Would you rather have it inside my chest?”
Nobody answered.