There was this girl I once knew who drowned. And I don't say that in the way terrible writers talk about drowning. I mean she sank in a filthy river and never came back to the surface.
The first time I met her she told me that when whales die, they stay at the bottom for years. Parasites feed on them, their bones wither, and the blood dries. Until nothing remains. I mean even for someone as strange as her: it was an absurd factoid to share with someone you just met.
I laughed. Mostly because I didn't know how else to react to this information. She just stared, unmoving. She also liked to burn matchsticks and see the tiny stick melt. She had burnt her fingers more time than she can count just to keep the fire aflame for a bit longer. So, she always carried a pack of matches with her, and she had a habit of lighting it on a whim.
That night we fucked. Yes, it was not making love, because I remember her mentioning it in a matter-of-fact tone. She cried afterwards, even though it was me who was left with multiple bruises on my back.
The morning after, she just left. Without talking or informing. I had planned to make her breakfast in bed - some French toasts coupled with a cup of chamomile tea. But she was gone. She left a matchbox behind. And I never heard from her again.
One day, I saw her photo in a newspaper - I could recognise the melancholy of that face anywhere. The news coldly stated that a girl jumped in the river. They haven't yet identified her. The coast guards didn't anticipate because she had been sitting there for hours. Probably listening to some heavy metal songs. And just like that, she jumped.
Now, as I sit in the cafe we met, I see her sinking. I imagine the joy on her face, even at the edge of death, as she sees a dead whale at the bottom.
The whale and the girl are lying next to each other, as some parasitic creature devours her flesh.
And I see her smile. Maybe for the first time. Maybe for the last.
