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She was like marat only with nobody to kill her.
-Vladimir Nabokov
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She Was Like Marat Only With Nobody

Vladimir Nabokov
She was like marat only with nobody to kill her.
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More From Vladimir Nabokov

A guy's calling to say he's failing algebra ii. just as a point of practice, i say, kill yourself. a woman calls and says her kids won't behave. without missing a beat, i tell her, kill yourself. a man calls to say his car won't start. kill yourself. a woman calls to ask what time the late movie starts. kill yourself. she asks, "isn't this 555-1327? is this the moorehouse cineplex? i say, kill yourself. kill yourself. kill yourself.
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Eventually she came. she appeared suddenly, exactly like she'd done that day- she stepped into the sunshine, she jumped, she laughed and threw her head back, so her long ponytail nearly grazed the waistband of her jeans. after that, i couldn't think about anything else. the mole on the inside of her right elbow, like a dark blot of ink. the way she ripped her nails to shreds when she was nervous. her eyes, deep as a promise. her stomach, pale and soft and gorgeous, and the tiny dark cavity of her belly button. i nearly went crazy.
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She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. she was beautiful, for the way she thought. she was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. she was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. no, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. she was beautiful, deep down to her soul. she is beautiful.
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And she loved a man who was made out of nothing. a few hours without him and right away she’d be missing him with her whole body, sitting in her office surrounded by polyethylene and concrete and thinking of him. and every time she’d boil water for coffee in her ground-floor office, she’d let the steam cover her face, imagining it was him stroking her cheeks, her eyelids and she’d wait for the day to be over, so she could go to her apartment building, climb the flight of stairs, turn the key in the door, and find him waiting for her, naked and still between the sheets of her empty bed.
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She didn’t understand why it was happening,” he said. “i had to tell her she would die. her social worker said i had to tell her. i had to tell her she would die, so i told her she was going to heaven. she asked if i would be there, and i said that i would not, not yet. but eventually, she said, and i promised that yes, of course, very soon. and i told her that in the meantime we had great family up there that would take care of her. and she asked me when i would be there, and i told her soon. twenty-two years ago.
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She sat leaning back in her chair, looking ahead, knowing that he was as aware of her as she was of him. she found pleasure in the special self-consciousness it gave her. when she crossed her legs, when she leaned on her arm against the window sill, when she brushed her hair off her forehead - every movement of her body was underscored by a feeling the unadmitted words for which were: is he seeing it?
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