My Year of Rest and Relaxation

by Ottessa Moshfegh

Nothing ever panned out in terms of “love.” Reva often spoke about “settling down.” That sounded like death to me. “I’d rather be alone than anybody’s live-in prostitute,” I said to Reva.

Watching her take what was deep and real and painful and ruin it by expressing it with such trite precision gave me reason to think Reva was an idiot, and therefore I could discount her pain, and with it, mine. Reva was like the pills I took. They turned everything, even hatred, even love, into fluff I could bat away. And that was exactly what I wanted—my emotions passing like headlights that shine softly through a window, sweep past me, illuminate something vaguely familiar, then fade and leave me in the dark again.