So Thirsty

by Rachel Harrison

Lately, my reflection has been the bearer of bad news. You’re tired, it tells me. You’re sad. You’re getting older.

She’s young, and I can tell that she’s performing her idea of adulthood, using this affectation in an attempt to appear professional. I used to do it, too. You never feel old enough, until the day you don’t feel young enough.

I’m sure to him, or any other outsider, it sounds like we hate each other, like we’re in some vicious fight. But this is a form of unconditional love. Of release. We gift each other the freedom to gnash our teeth, to growl and gnaw. Behave badly. Be terrible. Because we’ll love each other through it and no one else will.

“Okay,” I say, sitting down in the chair opposite him, crossing my arms and legs, creating a barrier with my extremities because I’m nothing if not committed to deluding myself.

I don’t know if I’m flattered or horrified. I’m not special enough to hold my own husband’s interest, but an ancient vampire will watch me sleep.

I was so preoccupied lamenting my invisibility as a woman getting older, I didn’t realize it could be weaponized. I didn’t realize it’s part of our power, no one thinking we have any.

Maybe the world makes you callous. The longer you live, the less you care. I wonder if that’s a good thing, or if it’s tragic. I wonder if it’s possible to ever know for sure.