Alone and empty, she hears voices, drunk, awful locals chatting, laughing, enjoying the benches. She already raised a stink to the town council and had a sign erected that states the benches are only to be used during daylight hours. But the sign is a splendid failure. It is so dark at her end of the street, once the sun sets, no one can read the sign. Nearly nightly now it falls to her to sweep these dregs back to town or whichever lesser view they came from.
Alone in this house, on this far beach with no one to ask, Do you want to take a walk, do you want to watch a movie, should we head up to bed now, the laughing continues. Her blood rages. She unseals her window. The night air disturbs her controlled climate. Another trespass these bench sitters claim. She opens her mouth. Violence and pure rage let loose. Fine, thick, rich curse words pour from her mouth, indignities to scratch untouchable itches like Where is her husband? Where are her children? How for fuck’s sake did she, a beautiful person, end up in this house, on this beach, with no one?
Her initial tirade is met with silence. “Get out of here!” she screams.
The bench sitters do nothing, they stare openmouthed, a woman with two girls.
“What is your fucking problem? This is my property!”
They don’t move.
“You stupid shits! Can’t you hear me?!”
They stare. The young age of the girls makes each of the woman’s curse words count triple. She feels her naughty language like a painful lash, producing more awful language, the worst words she can imagine. “Cunts! Cunts! Poor people!” She says it, screams it.
Finally one of the girls holds up her hands, gesturing to the mother and the other child. She speaks in sign language, a secret conversation the woman can’t understand, and when the girl’s done both the mother and the children begin to laugh again so loudly, almost as if they are deaf, almost as if their ears can’t judge the level of the laughter they make.
“I hate you! I hate all of you!” the woman screams, and does not stop screaming even after she’s back inside, the sliding door slammed shut, her awful reflection the only image in the glass.
OXTR
oxytocin receptor
inducer of uterine contractions during parturition and of milk ejection, modulator of a variety of behaviors, including stress and anxiety, social memory and recognition, sexual and aggressive behaviors, bonding and maternal behavior
Here’s a young nun, a novice at a convent that hasn’t been able to entice young women to stay in over twenty years. None except for her. She lives now on a mountain where many of her older sisters are preparing for death, so that one day, when she’s done ministering to all their needs, all their last rights, she’ll be left alone, the last nun standing. In some small way, she’s looking forward to that.
TP53
tumor protein p53
regulates cell division and prevents tumor formation, “guardian of the genome”
A couple rents an upstate cottage beside a river, total luxury. Their dog can run for miles undisturbed. The bottom floor houses a full-size indoor pool where they can swim parallel to the river with the current, against the current, with the current. Escaping all of the river’s inconveniences: ice, rain, barges, toxic PCBs.
The house is decorated in Pottery Barn. It is complete. It is blank. The nondescript furniture allows renters to insert their own lives, like the decor of a just-fine business hotel. Everything has been calculated to cause the least upset.
When they arrive, the woman who owns the property greets them. She gives them a quick tour. She shows them linens, garbage disposal, and light switches. Everything is perfect, they tell her.
“Yes. I made sure of it.” She smiles. “Here’s a phone number should anything crop up.”
At first, it is hard for them, city people, to not be busy. They make informal schedules: breakfast, hike, lunch in town, massages, naps, dinner prep, dinner, Netflix, bed, so that it isn’t until their second afternoon that one of them shakes off the comfort of the deep couch and says, “You know, I’m going to give that swimming pool a try.”
He tops off his prosecco and heads downstairs. He slips into his swimsuit and pulls goggles down over his eyes. Then he removes his swimsuit. Who needs a swimsuit in a private pool? He drains his glass and dips one foot. The water is frigid. What had she said about controlling the temperature? He wishes he’d been listening better, but he was distracted by the pool, the views of the river, the mountains beyond. He dips his foot again. It is too cold for swimming. He’ll have to call. No big deal. They paid a lot of money for the rental and so far they’ve been nothing but perfect, quiet guests. He dials and after three rings gets an answer.
“Hello?” A man.
“Sorry to bother you. This is…” and he says his name. “I’m in the rental house this week. Quick question. I’m trying to take a swim and the pool’s frigid. Is there some way to make the water warmer?”
Then the question hangs as if the person is slow or old or doesn’t understand.
“Hello?”
“The unthinkable has happened.” Finally the man speaks.
“Sorry? What’s that?”
“Cynthia went to the city, rode an elevator up as high as she could and found a way out. She jumped. She’s dead,” the man reports.
Later that night the renter finds a thermostat for the pool in the downstairs utility closet. Everything has been calculated to cause the least upset. The feet leaving the ledge. In the morning a friend arrives for a visit. She brings her children. Eventually, the water in the pool warms up. None of them dare to jump in.
PGR
progesterone receptor
associated with the establishment and maintenance of pregnancy
Her partner had been dead for years when, in her late seventies, she grew interested in Skype. Real space-age stuff to someone born during World War I. Seeing the person on the phone. The woman had learned of Skype from the story of an academic who’d suffered round after round of Skype interviews with college search committees. During the last interview, after she used the words “hegemony” and “transmedia” and “intersectionality” and the search committee still measured disappointment, the academic lifted a pistol from the couch cushions and fired it directly into the tiny flashing camera of her monitor, the secret tunnel to that conference room of scholars with health insurance. She pulled the trigger. She blew those fuckers away.
“What is this Skype?” the older woman asked, and was told. Since then, she’s become an expert. Facebook, e-mail, Google, Twitter, Instagram, and now Skype. She spent her life as a photojournalist, traveling the world. Now that she’s older she travels less but fills this void by exploring the Internet. She sometimes even photographs her monitor or television set. She snaps Polaroids of celebrity divorces, lurid courtrooms, gossip TV.
Late one night she stumbles across Chatroulette, an online service much like Skype, linking people via video stream. Only, Chatroulette moves randomly from one user to another, linking strangers. More than fostering international dialogues, most Chatroulette conversations start with this: “Show me your tits.”