There she was, crossed legs & arms folded, one on top of the other. Her hair was long and neatly combed, a fine brown, an auburn nearing the tawny autumn of English literature paleness, and her face was lovely. She did not like eye contact, and did not want to be here. She was my patient, like a breeze passing on by, on a summer's night, which it was. Her boyfriend called her in, because she wanted to kill herself, and well, sad dames & troubled men who want to kill themselves were the only sort of patients I saw.

It was a beautiful girl on a beautiful night. It was three in the morning in my office, so I asked her the requisite question, "Do you want to kill yourself?"

"No."

"Okay. We'll follow up with you in a few days, but you can go home."

"Thank you."

She signed the medical & research papers, called a cab, and left.

She looked at no one. She was also the loveliest girl I'd ever seen, & the kind I'd fall in love with, young & silent & mooded & artistic in a classic, subtle way. She was a photographer.

I had met a beautiful stranger who wanted to kill herself.

---


Last night we all laughed about tattoos & the newest in fine dining experimentation, & bantered the vivre of Munich & all bustling cities. My tending partner & I agreed to meet in Berlin, at the behest of the teasing chef we were drinking with. The topic changed to dating, & identity in New York.

A couple walked in, ordered their drinks; proceeded to exchange looks and be slowly outraged at our playful verbal parry-fest.

I didn't recognize her at first, even though she was dressed lovely. Her hair was hacked short & highlighted, her tongue was sharper. She didn't kill herself. She let her misery turn her ugly instead.