A tiny naked woman appears behind a liqueur glass. She starts to climb it, her miniature sex looks magnified behind the crystal.
Her skin is dark and she has wild, long hair. Velvet legs embrace and surround the glass; tiny arms push and press her up. Finally, she rises to the edge.
The liqueur glass is small: square at the bottom and broad at the rim. It’s hard to climb it, but she persists.
Why does she do that? What is she looking for? Perhaps she wants to drown? To jump, as if it were a swimming pool, to let herself sink, to feel herself go, to be swallowed and drunk. Maybe all she wants is to dilute, like a rain drop merging into the sea.
The tiny woman ignores my questions and continues; she sits on the rim, takes impulse and jumps in, like a frog with light skin jumping into a dark well.
She is effervescent: foam rises where she fell.
She sinks at first, and then she surfaces, swimming around, playing with the liquid. I don’t know whether I should drink her or not. Who am I, to drink women from a bottle? I’m nobody. And still, I do it: her prickly feet the last thing I push down my throat: I can feel her slippery fingers on my tongue. I swallow her whole, and reach out for my next drink.
Another tiny woman materializes herself around the glass – at this point, there is a successive line of women- and in devouring them I feel only the soft crunching of their knees.
Worst suicides do happen, you should know. Who am I to refuse them this consummation? I’m nobody, that’s who, and hereby would love to present them with a toast: To you, my suicidal girls, to you!