Cleopatra and Frankenstein

by Coco Mellors

Grief wasn’t linear, she knew, but she hated to feel the old sensations return. She felt sluggish, low, in a way that she had not since living in London. She’d considered going back on her antidepressants, but she still hoped it would pass. And she was mostly doing a good job of hiding it. She washed her hair and ate dessert and tried to laugh when everyone else laughed.

“Sometimes I hate the thing I love to do,” I say.

It struck her that adult life was endlessly harsh and exciting, something to be overwhelmed by again and again, like a wave beating her down as she tried to stand.