by Madeline Sonik

Inside the narrow azure box is a sterling silver bracelet: twin strands of chain woven together, connected by spirals to a rectangular bar. I don’t see, at first, that the bar is engraved with my name—looping and graceful cursive.

He explains that “the guys” are responsible. They said: “I don’t see your name on her.” He explains that the bracelet is a gift of possession. “If they try that again,” he says, “I can just show them this. I can show them you belong to me.”

He clasps the bracelet on my left arm. It’s the nicest gift anyone’s given me, the only gift I’ve ever received from a male that wasn’t in my family. The fact that my name is on the bracelet, and not his—that no matter how much he shows his friends, they will not see his name—doesn’t make his gift any less brilliant or his story any less sweet.

We make out in his father’s car at Pillette Dock. I’m self-conscious of my breath and saliva. I wear pink peppermint lipstick, spray my tongue with Binaca whenever I get a chance, and try to choreograph our mouth-to-mouth contact so that strings of clinging spit need not embarrass us.

He has a moustache that scratches my face. I try to ignore it. I try to move outside of my body, to escape the discomfort, to observe our kissing from a distance, where I can see myself as someone different, someone who’s not so self-conscious or insecure.

Madeline Sonik, writer, anthologist, lecturer, lives in Victoria, BC, and currently holds a postdoctoral fellowship in the Department of Writing at the University of Victoria. “Fetters” is an essay from her recently completed memoir, A Soul Made up of Wants.