On the other side of the glass, the night asserts its authority; but
we are inside, suspended by spirits, and preserved in a healthful
light that fills the room and shines out through large windows to
the edge of the clearing.
Twigs crack like whips as a woman emerges from the forest. She
steps forth, bearing a dark cylinder; it stands in prominent
contrast to her nudity as she moves into the light. The room is
crowded, but I’m the only one watching as she takes the cylinder
into her mouth. She smashes the window with that object. It
lands at my feet—a bar of black soap, rigid and wet. The party
stands transfixed as she crawls through the broken glass. The
light grows dim, and with her mouth full of lather she announces,
“I come from the City of Hair beyond the Wrinkled Mountain and I
will not rest until I’ve washed every penis in this room.”
Washerwoman
Bosse-de-Nage
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