It wasn't that she wanted to die. She was just exhausted of this place, the weight of gravity. The thought had first occurred to her when she was at the coffee shop at the corner of the street she lived on. It was a bustling, familiar place. The sort of shop where she could take off her shoes and curl her feet against the cold planks of the floorboards. How many feet had curled here? How many feet would? The building was over two hundred years ago. Fifty years had been spent as Cafe Marie. Her bladder was full, but she couldn't move. She was too busy watching around her. The barista shaking the aluminum milk canisters to check their fullness. The arch of a purple orchid tickling the bowed head of a woman as she worked on the crossword with a friend. To her left, a couple was on their third date. They were familiar in the way that their bodies casually curled in to one another -- they had sex before -- but not familiar enough for silence. Their chatter filled her head and saved her from those thoughts.

I can tell you're in your head a lot, the man said.
Yes, I need to be in contact with my intuitive intelligence. I realize the whole opposites attract thing? She whished loudly, hands separating. Bullshit. Bullshit. You have to have common ground. Astrology, for example. We're Scorpios. The same sign.
The man nods knowingly.

It was time. There was no point in living here anymore. She would miss her beautiful apartment and the slippery scarves that hung off her bed frame. These were not real things anymore. Her true home was fifteen minutes away in a modern district full of beautiful new homes. Her husband had designed the house with his best friend, an architect. Aemilia Handler. She was Aemilia Handler now. She had been married for seven months to Benjamin Handler of Mamaroneck, New York after a whirlwind courtship and elaborate wedding. Ben was in international law. He hated clutter and couldn't understand the brilliance of Edith Piaf. He enjoyed Charles Mingus and played tennis on Saturday morning instead. He wanted to move to Vietnam. They speak French there too, he reminded her as they lay in their uncluttered white bed and laid their head down on simple white pillows. White, white, white. Their house was completely devoid of color save for the spots where she had been. A red scarf. The brilliant turquoise of a hand purse. He was constantly picking up heels in every color of the rainbow.

The couple next to her were too agreeable with one another. No, she retracted her previous opinion, no they had not had sex yet. They wanted to though. Badly. Aemilia smeared her hands over her thighs and watched the silk of her skirt spread thin over skin. She still couldn't see through it.

Ben was a good husband. He bought her beautiful things and took her on lavish trips. He traveled with her. They went to India, to Moscow, and to Bali. It wasn't the same. In a movie theatre in Berlin, he recoiled when she tried to unzip his trousers.

What are you thinking of, he said one night as they laid in their bed. He looked up over the black frames of his eyeglasses to her. It aged him. He was already ten years older than Aemilia, but looked more like twenty. Was his hair graying around the temples?

Nothing at all, she said. It was a lie. There was plenty on her mind. She was two months late. It was imminent now. Last week, she had snuck into baby shops and touched all the strollers and cots covetously. She had sniffed the powdery collars of coats with peter pan colors. A baby was good. It was time for a baby, she thought. She was almost thirty. It was time. Now, reality sank in. She slept poorly and imagined all sorts of terrible scenarios. She would forget her baby in supermarkets and shivering in its plastic tub. Ben would hire a nanny to watch the infant because his mother could not be trusted. Her mother? She knew nothing about girls and everything she knew about boys was inappropriate. There wasn't a maternal bone in her body. An appointment had been made this afternoon. She would take care of it and he would never know. Ben, oblivious and sweet Ben. Ben, who kindly requested she not smoke in the house and said nothing when he found cigarette butts in the sink or stubbed out on the lip of her tub after a good soak.

Impossible. How can you not think about anything?

Easy. See -- She stared vacantly at him until he laughed and smeared a palm over her delicate features. Fingers skimmed down her neck, her shoulder.

Later that night, he would bury himself atop her and she would watch him as he rocked and rocked. When he came, it was silent and yawning. She stared down the dim glint of his mouth to his molars. For a moment, he was someone else. She sniffed at his neck and saw Holden in the corner of the room. Watching, watching.

She blinked and she was a week forward again, sitting inside the Cafe Marie. Aemilia realized that she had been staring forward and attracted the attention of the man in front of her. He was old enough to be her father and looked like everyone else's with his pale hair flopping over the vee of his receding hairline and ruddy skin lined. Norwegian, she thought as she looked away. A hand cupped her neck and she stared at the floor. Her bladder ached fiercely now, but she couldn't bring herself to go to the bathroom and face the thick cotton pad shoved between her thighs still. The pain was gone. The entire process had been a brief, hazy thing. A twilight scraping. If she had loved her husband or the knot of tissue inside her, she would have been ruined. Instead, Aemilia was inconvenienced.

Never again, she thought as she crossed her legs and squeezed down the muscles of her pelvis.

She debated leaving a note. In a way, she owed some sort of explanation to Ben. It was only fair since she was taking away his wife. Still, what was there to say? She took out a pen and a sheet of paper. It was the sort of thing that one read about in the Reader's Digest. Today, we remember the tragic story of Amelia Handler ( Of course, her name would be spelled incorrectly. Neither the readership nor the editors of Reader's Digest had the imagination or classical background to know her name as anything but a typographical error to correct.) who had been forgotten by society. Show kindness on those around you. You never know who is writing their suicide letters in the fifty year old Cafe Marie on Rue Savoy...

Ben,

I'm tired. I'm absolutely wiped out, sweetheart. Please water the iris. They're my favorite, after all.

Your wife,
Aemilia.


Papa and Dad,

I'm about to do the most fucked up thing I've ever done. I'm not afraid though and I want you to know that there's nothing that you could have done to change this. I'm just exhausted and ready to try a new shell. Let's talk about something we've never talked about before -- The afterlife.

I know I was raised an atheist, but none of us believe that we're just animate worm food. It's just a change of scenery really. I'm not afraid to leave because I know that I'll see you again and soon. I give you full permission to berate me for the next ten years or so's worth of dream-time. I've got the time to spare.

Some housekeeping: Take care of my irises. I don't think they'll survive the heat and humidity of Vietnam and honestly, Ben is a lawyer not a botanist. They're the one bit of clutter that I was allowed. As for Ben, he'll take care of himself. He's heartier and very eligible. Concerning my music and any intellectual work, Papa I know this isn't legally binding but try your damndest to get the rights to everything. And? I don't know. Do whatever you want.

Lastly, thank you for the beautiful childhood and life. A girl couldn't be luckier than I was.

See you soon. Let's meet in Versailles. I'll be the one with cake.

Aemilia.


Holden,

I doubt you'll ever read this, but I'm wrapping up loose ends and why the hell not? I don't have face to save anymore. So, here it is: I really wish you would have loved me. It's not as if you would have saved me or anything dramatic. More than likely, I'd still be writing you a letter today had you loved me. Guilt is tiresome, darling. Don't bother with it. Still, just the same. Goddamn, how could you not love me?

You're the one person outside my parents that I feel ever really knew me. It sounds so fucking cliche, but it's true. I haven't had multiple orgasms since the last time we fucked. Congratulations!

Now, honestly. If you get this, then you should know that I bequeath to you certain personal affects that you may either collect or gladly ignore:

1 silver lighter with the initials ABP etched on the front
1 gently used tube of Chanel Red lipstick
1 silk scarf with yellow and red poppies printed across it, circa 1952
1 copy of Henry James Wings of the Dove (1st ed.)

At least take the James novel. It's worth a goodly amount of money.

So right. I think this is a much better good-bye than our last. It's the sort to be satisfied with. Afterall, I had the last word.

I love you. I love you.

Aemilia.


She waited until Ben had left for work before drawing herself a bath. Ever since their wedding, she had stopped taking piano tuning jobs. Her work was reduced to eight months -- four in the spring and four in the fall. In the next room, she had placed her worn album of Puccini's La Boheme on. It was tragic and full of great crescendos. Poor Mimi, she thought as her foot dipped into the steaming hot water. She winced at the burn and felt her skin ripple uncomfortably. Poor Mimi.

It took coaxing and some time before she could fully immerse herself into the water. Her cheeks were pink by now and the hollow of her collarbones sweat out heat. A purging, she thought as her hair was pinned high atop her head. Her face was bare save for a defiant streak of red lipstick. Eyeliner and mascara would run, but it wouldn't do to die without a bit of color on. The razor was antiquated in its appearance, but not rusted. It looked like a flat, palm-sized anvil. She touched it to her tongue and let its edge prick the pale pink tip of it. It didn't hurt and her blood was tangy and sweet. She sucked on the wound and hummed along with her opera.

She cut herself without knowing. It was a sharp slashing motion down the line of her forearm done without flinch or thought. She simply had to do it. The wound burned like fire rather than felt like a ripping tear. Curious, she thought as blood pooled quickly up. It was a wondrous rush. Her arm was slick and orange. When she gripped the razor with the wounded arm, it nearly slipped from her fingers. Her palm opened up on its heel as she grimaced and attempted to focus on working the faulty hand. The cut on her left side was weaker, a clumsier and more painful line. She submerged her wounds and felt water breaking through the quick work of her body. The water turned pink, then orange. A sunset that wavered and turned black.

She waited for a light, but it never came.


Aemilia regained consciousness four days later. It was the drugs that had been pumped into her elbow rather than the extensive injuries she had inflicted that kept her subdued and trapped in a gray haze. It felt like an hour had passed, but she knew it was longer from the crackled feel of her lips. Her tongue was like a patch of cotton. When she opened her eyes, it was to the stern stare of her father. Michael Donovan looked like Rasputin with his dirty, magician's stare. He was both furious and frightened. A part of him wanted to smother his daughter as she laid in her helpless state. It felt only right to finish what she had left undone.

Aemilia's eyes took their time focusing, but it was soon clear this was no dream. Her mouth opened and she croaked out an indecipherable sound. She wheezed once and swallowed the dust in her throat before trying again. Oh fuck, she managed finally.

You have no idea, Aemilia. No idea how right you are, Michael said before leaving the room. If it was solitude that she craved, she had it now.

Ben came that evening. Michael must have told him that Aemilia was awake, but sedated. It felt safe to enter the lion's den while she was still more or less strapped to the bed. She was in a psychiatric hospital now. They had transferred her to the private setting the evening after she stabilized.

In contrast to her wild man father, Ben was clean shaven and smelled delicious. His after shave was bergamot and mint. It burned the inside of her nose and made her smile.

Why didn't you just tell me that you were depressed, he said after they had sat together in silence for twenty minutes. He didn't touch her. He could scarce look at her. Instead, he stared at his hands were his cellphone was turned over and over again. They took comfort in their own space and gestures. Aemilia's was more limited with her arms strapped down. She tapped her fingertips against the thin mattress.

I wasn't depressed, she said. I was tired and bored of this body.

Of me?

No, she said. Of me. Well, and maybe a little bit of you but a little bit of everything too.

He looked away and she sighed at his profile. It was strong and handsome. Aemillia fixated on the cleft of his chin as if it was a feature that he had grown overnight. Her forehead wrinkled and brows cinched close together. She hummed, puckering her mouth and wondering how she ever let herself marry a man with a butt chin. I'd like if you left, she said.