He said it would be like an eclipse of the sun and the moon in the sky, a marriage of all things dark and light. Aidan had urged Tana to make out with his new sulky-mouthed, strawberry-haired girlfriend, the one who was wearing a dog collar she'd found in the mudroom. After that came a lot of dancing and some more swigs from a bottle of whiskey. If you picked wrong, you had to do a shot. Before that there'd been some playing of a drinking game called The Lady or The Tiger, where you bet on whether a tossed coin would come up heads (lady) or tails (tiger). The truth was that she was pretty sure she'd passed out in the bathroom while avoiding her ex, Aidan. Her black hair was a tangled mess that finger-combing didn't do a lot to fix. The white baby-doll dress she'd borrowed out of her mother's closet was ripped at the sleeve. Her makeup was smudged, lipstick smeared across her cheek, mascara spread like a stain. Levering herself up, Tana stumbled to the faucet and splashed water on her face.
Everything got a little blurry after that. Remembered the way she'd lined her foggy blue eyes in shimmering black and kissed her mirror for luck. She remembered getting ready, putting on the jangling bracelets that still chimed together when she moved and the steel-toed oxblood boots that took forever to lace and were mysteriously no longer on her feet. "Ugh," she said, her fingers on the curtain to steady herself, popping three rings off the rod with her weight. Bright, buttery, late summer sunlight streamed in from a small window above the toilet, interrupted only by the swinging shadows made by the garland of garlic hung above it.Ī party. The sink was piled with plastic cups, beer bottles, and askew hand towels. Then she scrambled up onto her knees, skin sliding on the enamel, and pushed aside the shower curtain. For a moment, she felt completely disoriented. She looked up dazedly at the ceiling, at the blots of mold grown into Rorschach patterns. The rest of her, including her clothes, was still completely dry, which was kind of a relief.
A slow drip had soaked the fabric on her shoulder and wetted locks of her hair.
Her legs were drawn up, her cheek pressed against the cold metal of the faucet. Nothing can happen more beautiful than death.
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