Eileen

by Ottessa Moshfegh

I’ve lived with many alcoholic men over the years, and each has taught me that it is useless to worry, fruitless to ask why, suicide to try to help them.

Knowledge of anything current or faddish made me feel I was just a victim of isolation. If I avoided all that on purpose, I could believe I was in control.

When I imagine him now, I think of the way he’d swerve a toothpick around in his mouth. It was beautiful. It was poetry.

Being as young as I was, I was terribly sensitive, and determined never to show it.

When he was alone he had an ominous kind of stillness, like a slingshot being pulled back too hard.

It’s funny how love can leap from one person to another, like a flea.

I held him in such high esteem. Just a glance in my direction had my pulse quick for hours.

I remember it was a voluptuous pine and the needles were thick and waxy and its sap filled the air with a stunning tang.

There was, of course, a sense of comfort in X-ville. Imagine an old man walking a golden retriever, a woman lifting a bag of groceries from her car.

She was a special kind of girl. When she moved, she seemed to throw her flesh around as though it were a fur coat, so relaxed and comfortable, I couldn’t understand her. She was charming, I suppose,

The place was filthy. Later, in certain particularly unkempt subway stations or public restrooms, I’d be reminded of that old kitchen and gag. It was no wonder I barely ever had an appetite. Grime and grease and dust coated every surface.

I know little about psychology and reject the science entirely. People in that profession, I’d say, should be watched very closely.

couldn’t shake the image—such erotic force seemed impossible.

Sexual excitement nearly always made me feel sick.

My thoughts were like dirty films reeling inside my brain,

“Of course I’m not embarrassed,” I told her. To declare this took more courage than I’d needed in years, for it required the brief removal of my mask of ice. “I completely agree with you.”

had this childish idea that it is best when dealing with a new friend to withhold all opinions until the other puts forth her opinions first. Nowadays perhaps we’d call the attitude blasé. It is a peculiar posture of insecure people. They feel most comfortable denying any perspective whatsoever rather than proclaiming any allegiance or philosophy and risk rejection and judgment. I thought I had to bite my tongue and seem as aloof as possible until Rebecca set the rules of the game, so to speak.

there was a sureness about him I guess I found attractive. I was so easily swayed by the vestiges of power.

I certainly could have passed for crazy on days when I’d not slept and showed up unkempt and hungover, rolling my eyes at every noise and gnashing my teeth at every flicker of light.

But working at Moorehead did give me a sneak peek into the male disposition. I could, at times, stand quietly and observe the boys like animals in a zoo—how they moved, breathed, all the nuanced gestures and attitudes that made each of them seem special.

I recall one of my early relationships—not a heavy love affair, just a light one—was with a Russian man with a wonderful sense of humor who permitted me to squeeze the pus from his pimples on his back and shoulders. To me, this was the greatest intimacy.

Before that, still young and neurotic, just allowing a man to listen to me urinate was utter humiliation, torture, and therefore, I thought, proof of profound love and trust.

A grown woman is like a coyote—she can get by on very little. Men are more like house cats. Leave them alone for too long and they’ll die of sadness. Over the years I’ve grown to love men for this weakness.

Standing outside the visitation room, I tapped the bony points of my hips with the butt of my fist, a habit which assured me, somehow, of my superiority, my great strength.

Her vitriol came through in her penmanship. While the earlier signature was clean, careful, the outgoing signature was violent, jagged, and rushed. It was always like that.

He was taller than I expected, and loose limbed with that awkward softness young men have before their bodies harden.

You can always tell something when a woman is overdressed—either she’s an outsider, or she’s insane.

set the bag of booze down next to my father, who was sleeping in his recliner with his face smushed against the cushion, eyebrows raised, forehead clenched, body twisted and clunky under the flannel robe.

“Things feel very real out here, don’t they? There’s simply no fantasy. And no sentimentality. That’s what fascinates me. There is history and pride, but very little imagination here.”

I had a moderate tolerance for alcohol, but an extreme thirst for it once I got started.

I am slow. I’m like a beautiful tortoise. I don’t waste my energy.

I could smell my excitement leaping up from my body like the pungent shock of burning sulfur when a match is struck.

I enjoyed having a set of clean instructions, following protocol. It gave me a sense of purpose, an easiness. It was a brief vacation from the loud, rabid inner circuitry of my mind.

Violence was just another function of the body, no less unusual than sweating or vomiting. It sat on the same shelf as sexual intercourse. The two got mixed up quite often, it seemed.

I was a fool about men in general. I learned the long way about love, tried every house on the block before I got it right. Now, finally, I live alone.

I really saw myself for the first time that night, a small creature in the throes of life, changing. I felt a great urge to look at photographs from my childhood, to kiss and caress the young faces in those snapshots.