Big Swiss

by Jen Beagin

It was a voice you could snag your sweater on, or perhaps chip one of your teeth, but it was also sweet enough to suck on, to sleep with in your mouth.

She’d been smoking her feelings since she was fifteen, and now, at age thirty-three, her real self was beginning to emerge. Unfortunately, her real self was horny, easily enraged, and no longer interested in making money.

Root beer, she said, was her winter flavor. In spring, she would switch to watermelon. Summer was strictly citrus.

She wished her jealousy were more light-phobic. Why couldn’t it die of exposure? It seemed to thrive out in the open, in broad daylight, as well as inside her body. It was parasitic. How long had it lurked in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to take her as its host? Now it was feasting on her red blood cells. Now it was invading her heart. But jealousy didn’t kill its host, right? It just felt that way. Eventually, it would pass out of her body completely.

She’d never felt such pure and naked anguish. It opened everything within her, every abscess, every abyss, and they were all throbbing and echoing horribly.

Yes, grief can be theatrical, she lectured herself. It can be extravagant. It wasn’t how she usually operated, but—oh well.

Stop trying to silence her or pretend she’s not there. Remind her that she’s not a bad person, that she doesn’t need to feel ashamed for having or expressing feelings, positive or negative. You could start by giving her a name.