The 18th century bawd who sells her daughter’s virginity
to an Earl. The tired CIA operative who says, “just do it,”
then half a village dies. The plantation owner’s wife.
The lonely CEO of the pharmaceutical company
who screams like a banshee when an employee’s baby
pukes milk on her pantsuit. The detective who clicks
her Zippo underneath the incriminating photo of her boss.
The “complex” one who lets her servant girl be whipped.
Who dumps the radioactive material in the reservoir.
Who is given a chance to apologize to a crying friend
and instead pauses and says, “fuck off.” Who is unable
to report her violent husband before he murders someone.
Unable to stop the drone pilot from pressing the button.
Scared of losing her promotion. Covers her ears. Utters
lines like “I believe you are mistaken, my dear” and
“This is above your pay-grade, kid, keep your nose out.”
Who says, “Fine! Fucking fine!” when the partner who
loves her but can’t live like this anymore says, “I love you
but I can’t live like this anymore.” Who thinks the truth
would spoil everything. Who burns the crucial letter.
Whose cleavage is angry and heaving. Who drinks
miniature vodkas in the hotel bath and nearly drowns.
Who wears her new husband’s dead ex-wife’s earrings
to the christening. Who can’t forgive her stepson
for existing. Who lets the suicide call go to voicemail.
Who walks to the AA meeting, is met at the church gate
by the greeter who says, “welcome” to which she replies,
“fuck you, creep” and keeps on walking. Who is sick
in the sink. Who suddenly feels the weight of her actions.
Who hyperventilates into a paper bag. Who splashes water
on her face in a public bathroom, glares at the mirror
and says, “Wise up.” Who knows her narrative arc is peaking,
knows there's goodness in her somewhere, the viewers
have glimpsed it in close-ups and now they’re halfway
through the final episode and she’s got twenty-two minutes
to wrangle a denouement, fall on her dagger, hand over
the list, clear her spiritual debt in a single payment. Look
at her standing on your porch-step, holding out her heart
like an injured bird and begging you to ruin her.
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