It was only two hours until she died. Eleanor knew this, and decided to wear her reddest dress for the occasion. It reminds me of blood, she murmured quietly, to no one in particular. It wasn’t customary for cab drivers to listen anyway.
Birthing was something she pondered a lot. She hoped that with this death she could be reborn again, into someone who could talk readily and swiftly at parties, who wasn’t afraid of the small, dark corner of her house, who ate regular meals at regular times. In her present life, Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to eat any more than a couple crackers at noon. She counted out each cracker carefully, as though they were communion wafers at the nearest church. A hush would fall over the room as she ate them. Crunching didn’t echo; her small apartment was piled high with books unread, ignored CDs, junk full of remorse. They tried to speak to her each day, but their voices fell on deaf ears as she busied herself with keeping the kitchen spick and span. It was her only passion, her desperate wish. Growth was a former beacon of light.
The cab driver slowed at the corner of Westchester and Sterling. A bland office building stood tall, making Eleanor feel as though she owed it something. A penance for her small frame. The stairs to the rooftop were envious of her shoes, rosy pink flats that sparkled if they touched the right lighting. Out of breath, Eleanor surveyed the area around her, observing clouds so low and ripe you could pluck them straight from the sky. Her cautious footsteps wavered as she reached the very edge, the ground below hopeful and eager. Without a companion, Eleanor produced a handful of crackers from the pocket of her jeans and held them out into oblivion. With a quavering arm she watched them crumble and fall, peppering the concrete earth. I am nothing but crackers, she mused. I am broken into several pieces, fragile and windswept. I am ready to go.
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