Sylvia Plath Died Quietly
[cw: pet death]
Steph had no idea how they were going to tell Dr. Phelps that her cat was dead.
They had just finished cleaning up the kitchen. A plastic grocery store bag spilled open into the doorway – trash, an empty glass bottle, a ripped foil wrapper, a mess of wet latex. Steph felt weird about throwing it away here, in the nicer, cleaner suburban dumpsters, where it would later mingle with empty organic juice containers and fliers announcing middle school lacrosse practice schedules.
And the cat. Sylvie. Wrapped up in the quilt in the center of the floor. Steph didn’t know where to put her yet.
When your professor asks you to house-sit during a long weekend, to water the plants and to help yourself to the pantry and to please cuddle on the couch with her beloved silver shorthair, you say yes of course. Absolutely. I would love to.
What you want to say is thank fucking god. I am so tired of my apartment that always feels wet and that always smells like mold. Please let me crawl into your sheets, which I’m sure have a very high thread count, and pretend that a life of clean countertops and full bookshelves is my own.
And your professor says that’s great, come by Wednesday evening around 7pm and I’ll give you the tour.
And she does. The house is gorgeous, because of course it is. Well-decorated and tasteful, with framed prints and beautiful rugs. Lived in. You can drink coffee by the window in this house. Grade essays. And as Steph had wondered a few steps behind their professor, Sylvie – short for Sylvia Plath – had lounged in the sunshine near the glass patio doors, her eyes closed.
Dr. Phelps tells Steph where all the light switches are and how much of Sylvie’s geriatric cat food to give and at what times.
And she does not say don’t smoke weed on my back porch so that my neighbors can smell it and think to ask me about it later. Don’t scroll through Tinder, high and horny, until you invite some stranger over to my home in the middle of the night. Don’t use my nice glasses to drink your shitty bottom-shelf wine out of as you both pretend to watch a movie.
Because why the fuck would she ever have to say that.
For the first three nights, Steph allowed themself to slip into a different life. They woke up early and made coffee, enjoying it slowly from the breakfast table by the window. Sylvie purred on the bench seat beside them as they thumbed through a book, a plate of cut fruit on the table. They got dressed–even though they didn’t plan to leave the house–and took the liberty to use Dr. Phelps' expensive face creams. They took luxurious soaks in the clawfoot bathtub, lighting candles. They cuddled at night under a beautiful quilt on a couch that was easily softer than Steph’s bed, and they rubbed Sylvie’s soft head, just behind the ears, while watching foreign films. There was almost no other place in the world that they’d rather be. It was almost good enough to feel like maybe, in time, things wouldn’t feel as bleak as they had felt these last three weeks.
But on Saturday, just after dinner, Steph had gotten a text from Julie. Hey. Just one word, harshly punctuated. They had been staring at the text when the second notification flashed over the recently-changed lock screen. I think I’m ready to talk.
His name was Aaron — he had dangly earrings and several tattoos and patchy facial hair. They had only invited him over because they were horny, and they were only horny because they were high. They were only high because they had gotten anxious and angry and – okay, fine, sad – and this was all, of course, thanks to fucking Julie.
Steph thought about her as Aaron’s hand rested on their thigh. When he leaned in to kiss them, they thought about the way Julie’s mouth had twitched at the corners when, at that coffee shop three weeks ago, she said that she needed space. To figure everything out, she had said.
She had not said because I’m not sure if I’m brave enough to leave you yet, or because I know that my life is better without you in it, but I don’t know how to tell you that. But she didn’t have to. Steph knew what she meant.
Steph’s body was warm from the alcohol and their head was foggy from the weed, and that’s how they ended up underneath Aaron’s body while they were still thinking about being overtop of Julie’s. Julie’s red hair fanned out on the pillowcases in her apartment that always smelled like lavender. Julie’s painted nails as they dug into Steph’s shoulders, leaving little crescent-moon marks in the skin. Julie’s soft voice, her sweet breath, her just-barely open mouth.
Steph moaned Julie’s name when they came, and Aaron slowed above them.
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” they mumbled.
“No, just now. Did you say something?” He was hovering above them still, sweat beading in his hairline.
And then Steph started to cry. Not subtly, but big, shoulder-shaking heaves.
“Shit,” he had said, clumsily removing his body from theirs. “I didn’t mean to–”
“It’s fine,” they interrupted. “You didn’t. I just –”
But Steph couldn’t find the words or the breath to say anything to the stranger whose bare ass was still sitting on her English professor’s soft couch. He sat next to them for a while, visibly uncomfortable, before standing up again to slide his boxers, his pants, his socks, his t-shirt back onto his body.
Steph eventually calmed down enough to apologize again and offer to call his Uber.
“It’s cool,” he had said. “I already called one.”
He did not say you really should Venmo me for it though, since I came all the way here and you made things really weird. But it would have been fair if he had.
Instead, they had awkwardly hugged as he grabbed his backpack and walked out the front door. Steph watched the strange car pull away and then retreated, blanket wrapped around their body, to the bedroom.
Sylvie was lying at the foot of the bed, so incredibly still. She looked like a stuffed animal.
And Steph knew.
Just like they knew as soon as they walked into that coffee shop and saw Julie, waiting, with her coffee already ordered. You can tell when love has left a room, even when it is kind enough to do so quietly. It’s not the kind of thing that announces itself on the way out.
But Steph wished for the goodbye anyway.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Kennedy Bailey (she/her) is an Appalachian writer currently living in Oslo, Norway. She is a lover of weird and uncomfortable stories, a collector of library cards, and a helpless victim of overpriced-coffee culture. Her works of fiction and poetry have previously been featured in Rappahannock Review and Progenitor.
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