Hannah Nathanson
Audition for Womanhood
Tonight’s audition starts with two girls sitting at the kitchen counter peeling lemons like they’re oranges. My first direction is to sit down with them. Next to us, on the windowsill, a potted plant growing in dramatic light.
First, I roll the lemons back and forth across the countertop until they are warm and soft. Then, I stick my thumb just right of the top. I push. I get a good grip. I move slowly around the lemon, in circles, until the rind is totally removed.
The directors call out: now start piling up some of the scraps.
Last week, someone rear-ended me just outside of Endicott. I was coming home from Plato’s Closet and now my car might be totaled. I called my mom immediately, but there wasn’t anything she could do.
I searched my texts for the word “insurance.” They set me up with a rental car.
We are customizing the counter with drops of lemon juice. It smells great. I think, maybe I will bring some home with me, for my house, but I am moving out soon anyways. My room? My body? All a rental.
A fourth girl walks into the kitchen, sees us there, plants dying on the windowsill. Pile of scraps growing. She nods. She sits. She laughs.
The directors call out: less laughter, more talking.
She says her mom has spent her whole life finding ways to build someone else a home.
The directors call out: less talking, more laughter.
The rental company gave me an SUV designed for tall people. I can barely reach the pedals and there is no comfortable place to put my left leg. It doesn’t reach the ground, even with the seat pulled all the way towards the wheel.
They always get closest to hiring me when I forget they are watching.
It’s not every day I will have access to this body. Every day is a rental. I make a desperate choice and start to chew the rind.
They’ll never hire me, but they keep calling me back.
When I signed for the car, I agreed that if I forget to refill the gas they can charge me hundreds of thousands of dollars. If I get into an accident, they can have my first born.
Last night, I met somebody I could sort of see myself potentially loving one day, if most things were entirely different. That was enough. I let him spend eleven minutes inside of my body.
The directors shout: less thinking! less chewing! more peeling! more piling!
Apparently, we can’t be so inside of our own heads.
Hannah Nathanson is a writer in New York. Her work has been recognized by the Academy of American Poets, Gone Lawn, and Rejection Letters, among others. Her Instagram is @h.annahrose.