The bath tub reeks of feet and grime. Ariel holds her tongue out to taste the earth and I watch the moisture pool, “Sweat.” She says after thirty seconds and licks her lips. There’s a candle between us expelling the fragrance of vanilla. The aroma makes my head light so I slide open one of the shower doors and Ariel coughs. Her floor is a tiled powder pink and I smell flour. Next to the bath tub is a gun and a bottle of vodka. I grab the vodka and Ariel eagerly unscrews it., “Sylvia Plath said it felt like drink swords. She said she felt like a goddess when drinking vodka straight. Tell me if I glow.” In the background I can hear Benny Goodman sing about making love all hours of the day.

I gently tug the bottle from her lips after she’s downed a quarter of the bottle. The lip of the bottle is smeared with cherry red lipstick that tastes like peppermint. Ariel downs the rest of the vodka so I bring the lemon lime liquor to the bath tub. It has a better taste, but Ariel won’t drink it. She doesn’t want the feeling of the vodka to wear off. I tell her about the peach schnapps in The Virgin Suicides before coating my mouth with alcohol.

We’re listening to Frank Sinatra now and Ariel asks for the gun as I open another bottle of vodka. I take a sip and it bites my tongue, but I hold it down. I shake my head and say I want to die to Frank Zappa. Not a dirty old man that’s never touched a guitar. Ariel rolls her eyes, “Its old blue eyes! A classic, would you prefer something more rock and roll? Put on Nirvana when it’s your turn. I want to hear this voice as I go.”

I shake my head hard so she’ll notice, “I want Frank Zappa.”

Ariel shakes her head and I notice her sigh with frustration “Just give me the gun.” But I don’t. Instead I ask where she keeps the Frank Zappa. I understand how Sylvia felt about the vodka and I stand up straighter. Ariel gets up and knocks over the candle; at least she didn’t spill the vodka. I hear her shriek as I jump out of the tub and grab the gun. I run out the door and I don’t know where I’m going, so I go home and turn on Frank Zappa. Then I go to sleep.

My dad is shaking me awake, the time is 8:30 and my fingers are still curled around the gun. “Ariel’s in the hospital. Get ready.” Our car reeks of cheese nips and cigar smoke, I’m glad when we get there. The sky is a kind of dark blue spotted with crows. My dad takes my hand and leads me to Ariel’s room.

The room reeks of Lysol and I have to wrinkle my nose. Ariel is on the bed. “My legs,” she says and tugs at the sheet.

“What?”

“I began to combust. I was a ball of flame, I swear I was.”

“Is that why-“

“Yes. I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk again. I don’t know if I care. You should’ve felt the energy!”

“Didn’t it hurt?”

“I adjusted, I could’ve stayed that way, but my brother found me and turned on the water. I was so close, you know?”

Yeah, I say. I know.