Die, My Love

by Ariana Harwicz

She tells the family that her husband squeezed her hand tight just before he died, but that the doctor said it had only been a reflex reaction. It was then that I felt close to her for the first time.

When I have sex, I celebrate the birthdays of the departed.

One man coughs and another clears his throat. They’re all smokers. Nothing but deep, leaden voices. And if the doctors and patients conspire to keep me in bed? A man dressed in white winks at me. Why did my husband bring me here? To see how long I can hold out. To sicken the nymphomaniac.

As soon I stepped outside, I saw him and forgot about everything that had come before, about the smouldering house, about my little soldier sleeping with his eyes open like a rabbit, about all those days of anguished anticipation. And I devoured him. Because that, my dear son, is what the night is for.

At first, I felt nothing but pain. The kind of pain a person doesn’t share, not even with herself. I was in mourning for a long time, but there came a moment when, like the widow who unlocks her front door for the first time, who eats dinner in silence for the first time, who gets into bed alone for the first time, I felt a sadness that was exhilarating, wild.