do you pity me, reader?
The evening of the eclipse:
A new set of light pink nails with the tiniest hint of pearly shimmer. A weighted blanket. A rose oil mixed in with a rose moisturizer. A rose lip salve. A chamomile tea post foot soak with juniper berry bath salts and magnesium flakes. A fresh baguette with diced tomato and onion for dinner. A drizzle of olive oil. No emails, no texts. Work applied to, a book proposal with scattered but cohesive ideas.
It’s a silent night in Emily Mais’ world.
-
“I told him that he has a weird reputation with women. And I was specific with my word choice. The word “weird” would make any insecure man who was concerned about optics - even more insecure. I told him that I think he projects whatever he went through as a child onto other women. He told me his parents weren’t that fucked up. And I told him that all of our parents have fucked us up. He gave me an answer that I can’t remember, and then ended it with - “I guess that is projection. But I can love. I’ve been in love.” And I looked at him, and said, “I know.” And then this look crossed his face. It was almost like, panic. And then he said, “I don’t think anyone has ever been able to figure out my brain yet.” And that’s when I told him he should read the letters.”
“And all of this happened in one night? That last night?”
I nod. “And then we had sex on his couch like, three times after.”
-
I don’t know a lot about my parent’s relationship. I never loved the way my mom spoke to my dad, even though, now at 32, I might be more able to understand the frustrations behind it all.
If my mom were alive, I think I’d ask her what it was about my dad that enticed her in the beginning. And if I still spoke to my dad, I’d ask him what it was about her that enticed him.
But if I had to guess, I would assume they both would say the other was different. My mother was the opposite of predictable. She was Italian and outspoken and fiesty, a contrast to the polite Canadian women that surrounded my dad. And my dad was different than the traditional Italian men that surrounded my mom. He wasn’t about to make my mom do anything that she didn’t want to do. She didn’t want to be contained, she couldn’t be contained.
Maybe they fell madly in love with each other at some point in time. Maybe it is bold of me to make assumptions of a relationship that I was too young to understand. But it was a relationship that I watched, and a relationship that I observed. And as the youngest child, you are quick to adapt. You study, you watch, you learn. What was my role? To not rock the boat.
To witness, to not partake.
-
I’m finishing off a glass of Lambrusco on a Friday night while I wait for my potatoes to finish roasting. The stress of my day was figuring out how to time my salmon on the stove and my potatoes in the oven. The key is to have the potatoes roast 20 minutes longer.
I’m too lazy to grab another bottle of wine, so I opt for a cigarette instead. The box has broken, about 16 cigarettes fall loose in my Zara clutch that I got in Paris in 2018. I light one on my balcony while I prolong cooking the salmon. And every time I inhale, I am reminded why people fall into addiction.
-
The morning after the eclipse, I receive an email granting me a spot into a writer’s residency. One week in the early Spring with two incredible and very well-known writers. It happens to fall the same week of Mother’s Day.
“Our team was struck by your instinct for your central question: "did you ever think that the feeling of being cared for would feel so foreign?" This type of inquiry is the mark of a writer who trusts her audience, who knows that the most intimate truths arrive sideways.”
I read their feedback to a friend at work. I am never one to believe in coincidences.
“Say yes! The money will come. The money will always come.” She tells me.
An hour later, another email comes in. I have been subscribed to daily condo listings since the fall of 2025. A one-bedroom is for rent in a building that I recognize, but that I never see listed.
It is a unit in his building, on his floor, and two doors next to him.
-
“I need to see this apartment.” I text a realtor-friend (who I happened to make out with at a party this past December).
“Oh! You’re ready to move? Do you have your paperwork?” He replies.
I roll my eyes. I send a voicenote instead.
“Listen. I’m going to be completely honest with you. I don’t need to move right now. In fact - I actually have no interest in moving at all. But I’m just curious about the unit, and the building. It’s pure curiosity. That’s all.”
“Ah. So just for fun.” He texts back. “I’ll set something up for us this week. When are you free?”
-
Dear Reader,
Aren’t you curious about past lives? Parallel lives? The what-would-have-happened-if ones. The endings that never came.
It’s an addiction - this wanting of answers. Isn’t it?
Wanting of peace. Wanting of closure.
Reader, I’d be lying if I said I sleep well at night knowing where it all went. What it all meant. What it was all meant for.
Reader, I am a writer. I am not destined to live a life that looks like everyone else’s. I’ve grown accustomed to living in the space where I don’t have a luxury of having all of my questions answered.
I won’t knock on doors. I won’t pray to the gods demanding a list of reasons as to why.
What do you perceive me as, Reader?
Do you think I’m crazy? Do you think I’m weak? Do you pity me, Reader?
Or do you see yourself here? Do you recognize the way you claw at things that never belonged to you? Do you recognize the beauty in that longing, Reader? In trying to make peace with a past that you won’t let outrun you.
Am I a mirror, Reader?
Reader, do you sleep at night?
Or do you smoke, Reader? Do you take pills, Reader? Do you take a mixture of things? Would you tell me if you talk to the ghosts, Reader? Because I’d tell you. I like the ghosts, Reader. I like them more than most people I meet.
So tell me, Reader. What would you do?
Tell me what you wish you could do.
But Reader, I won’t listen anyway.