22
THIS CLAY MASK ENJOYS CLASSICAL MUSIC JULIANNA PERKOSZ
A Russian Clay Mask She asked when the semester will be over. I opened the bathroom window, a stick forest of scorched branches lay beyond the sill. I told her, When I finish this new jar of my clay mask. The recyclable jar sat sealed on my bathroom counter. Her morning voice asked at eight oh six, I got the entire day off, now what, and I said, blurry-eyed with healing pink eye, Open Spotify and search for Shostakovich. I spelled the name one Soviet letter at a time. Now what, was met with, Put on the thrifted prom dress—making sure she washed it twice—and turn on Waltz no. 2. Now pretend you’re Anastasia. We pressed play at the same time, our feet gliding messily against our wooden floorboards, beds needing to be made and birds begging for windows to be open. We were two close friends, soul mates, waltzing through our mid-twenties, there was beauty in that moment that I wish I could have locked away in the locket she bought me when I finished my first degree. We talked for almost six hours, breakfast and lunch included. She began her day with stale waffles drenched in golden syrup and I