Brief Encounters

It's always awkward when I run into him, even though I've technically known him for longer than anyone else. The first time was at Valley Forge; I wasn't born too long before that. I was bringing what few supplies I could find to the Continental troops--you know how teenagers love rebellion. Anyway, a camp full of cold, hungry, sick, miserable men probably isn't the safest place for a young girl alone, but I was too stupid to realize that. One soldier pulled me onto his lap, shoved his hand up my skirts (two fingers black with frostbite, I remember), and asked me to keep him warm that night.

Then he appeared. At the time he was a soldier, too. Tugged me up and sent me on my way.

I never properly thanked him, even though, like I said, I've encountered him several times since. Trouble is I don't know know him. I just see him places. We ended up working in the same dirty factory town in Massachusetts for a few years. I don't think he recognized me, though, despite a few meaningful glances I shot his way. Then there was that women's suffrage rally in New York, and that time he was across the street from me at a ticker-tape parade post-WWII. A sweaty little punk show in the 70's. Last time was at the bank. We might have seen a lot, but we still have bank accounts like everyone else.

It's not that I haven't ever talked to him. We shouted at each other for a bit at that concert. Turns out he's even older than I am. Came over from Europe. Saw the Holy Roman Empire, all that stuff. I don't know. I'm not very good at pre-me history.

He said there were a few others, but I haven't met them, at least not to my knowledge. There's no annual convention for people like me. I have no idea why it happens. My body got stuck one way and then stayed and stayed, and still stays. Same thing with him, I guess.

I'd ask you to remind me to thank him next time I see him, but I doubt you'll make it. No offense.

And Eat It Too

They met online--an eighty-seven percent match. Pretty high, he thought. I want her to like me, he thought. So he made her a cake. Chocolate, because girls like that. Packaged powder mix from a cardboard box. Threw in an extra egg to make it softer, something his mom had taught him. He frosted it, placed it gently in a tupperware container. When she arrived at the bar, he set it on the table between them.

"Oh. That's so sweet. But I mean, I've never met you. Probably shouldn't take candy from strangers, you know?"

Until that moment, he didn't know.

He ate the cake that night on his couch, the whole thing, licked the frosting off his fingers, and he felt sick.

Running at Night

Jordan doesn't understand people who run in the morning. He tried for a few weeks, muscles tugging in the sick, weak sunlight, eyes too wet, stomach queasy. When his feet slapped the ground it felt all wrong, as though the concrete of the sidewalk weren't fully dry. Is any race worth that kind of ugliness? Is good health?

Mornings are for pillows, heavy blankets, the soft skin over a woman's hip and behind her ear. Mornings are for showers, long hot ones where you might forget to rinse out the conditioner. Mornings are for toast with lite cream cheese, black coffee, National Public Radio.

Nighttime is for running. Jordan feels faster with the dark slips off his sweat, more powerful with the cool air on his neck, the only heat emanating from his body and whatever remains in the pavement. He prefers the calm yellow glow of old dirty streetlights, of the moon.

Not a Morning Person

"CHHHH dun-ch-dun-ch-dun-ch-dun-ch"

Josie swerves, almost hits the car in the next lane. The driver honks and she jumps again. 

It's that fucking drumbeat. Every time. Who makes Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself" their alarm clock song? Someone who wants to make weekday mornings worse than they already are. Someone going through a dry patch. Someone bitter, but with a bleak sense of humor. Josie to a T. 

This was a few years ago. She's been seeing someone new lately, Danielle. They met in line at the bank. Danielle is an optimist, sunny all the time. Josie is constantly surprised she doesn't hate her. Danielle is soft, curvy hips. Whenever Danielle spends the night, Josie tries to avoid turning on the alarm clock at all. If she does have somewhere to be the next day, it's just a generic beep.

Josie should have known. About Billy Idol, that is. This has happened before with other songs. "Kiss Off" by Violent Femmes. Blondie's "Heart of Glass." Just a few notes and that's it. Whatever else she's doing, whatever else she's thinking--gone. She is alert, heart pounding. She is running late, even when she isn't. There is no snooze button in the grocery store, at the dentist's office, in the car. The early morning interruption lingers with her for hours. 

Injuries

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

I would have agreed a year ago. Chad and I brought her home from the shelter, a fluffy little thing to love, easier than a child, cheaper. We bought organic dog food. We stocked up on squeaky toys. We let her sleep in our bed, curled up on our feet.

Shit all over the carpet, shredded cushions, toppled trash cans--these I dealt with as best I could. Chad rarely saw any of it--I cleaned the messes before he got home from work--and he loved his new canine companion so much that he easily brushed off my complaints. "Once I get that raise, I'll take her to training lessons," he'd promise, rubbing her pink belly. He never followed through, of course. 

I reach down to her, hold my bandaged hand in front of her face, remind her of her actions.

It had been too long, so I pulled Chad close to me. I kissed him, and we fell to the bed. My hand twisted through his hair, but it didn't feel good. It hurt, sharp, and I realized she had bit me. Holes in my skin, blood in his hair, on the yellow sheets. "Little bitch!"

Chad scooped her up. "You just scared her, that's all." He wrapped her up in his arms, kissed her ears, pressed his nose to hers. 

That was last night. Today I led her down to the basement with treats, since she doesn't come when I call. I led her right to the crawl space. I tightened a muzzle around her nose and jaw. I tied her paws together. We don't store anything back here--I doubt Chad even knows about it. I'll say she ran away. I propped open the door while taking out the trash. Stupid mistake. We'll drive around searching for her, check the local shelters, put up flyers. 

She looks up with those sad black eyes, all watery, as if to say, "you can't do this to me."

"No regrets," I reply. I shut the door.

Lifetime Guarantee

I was six. Mama and I pressed our fingertips together, our index fingers. I ticked her pulse aloud: tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Then she ticked mine: tickticktickticktick. I got scared because mine was so fast. Mother and daughter should match, I thought. I held out another finger, the littlest one, made her pinky swear I wasn't dying. She told me everyone dies someday, but she swore I wouldn't go that day. I made her promise me the same thing every day, and she did, until I was about twelve, when I decided I was invincible. What I wouldn't give now for such a guarantee.

Reaching and Hearing

I heard the noises in the vent night after night, but I couldn't reach up there. I was only eight. I told Aidy but she didn't believe me because I had imaginary friends. Thing is, I knew they were imaginary, my friends, and why would I make up noises as awful as all that? Squeaks like when the dentist takes that skinny metal pen to your teeth, only I could feel the sounds in my belly somehow, bouncing, like marching band drums in July. I told Aidy, but she wouldn't listen. Her room was next to mine, but she couldn't hear a thing. She didn't hear when I dragged a chair inside one night, didn't hear it wobbling as I stood on the seat. She only heard me when I burst into her room squalling, and my face was wet, and so was my hand. Even with that chair I couldn't reach all the way, and whatever it was only got away with the tippy top of my middle finger. I guess that was enough. Aidy let me sleep in her room for a couple months, and I couldn't hear, and I turned nine, and when I moved back in I still couldn't hear. I knew I could probably reach, with the chair, but I couldn't hear, so I didn't try.

Allergies

My mother told me I didn't have allergies, but I am certain that I am allergic to dry dead grass and dry powder sunlight and dry blue sky, blue like the bottom of a drained pool. Some call it paradise, but the mountains make me itchy--or maybe they don't, but they are persistent and persistence is itchy. That may be why I've never had a girlfriend--much to my mother's chagrin--and it may be why I've never held a job for more than four months--take my word for it, allergies are not a good excuse to skip your shift--and it may be why I prefer rain and snow, especially snow, glittering like it's fake, cubic zirconia like they have in all the casinos here, but heavy and wet and concealing.

Notebook

How dare you lay
your notebook
next to me?
Open:
bright white paper eye
blank ink scribble tongue
Why shouldn't I look?
You dare me to look
is to know is
to know
you

The Finger

"How's your finger?"

"I think it's going a little green."

Kyle left the kitchen, wet dishtowel still in hand, and joined Vanessa on the couch. He placed his palm beneath hers and inspected her finger, the towel a barrier between them. "I can't believe you still haven't taken care of this."

"It's just a bug bite."

"It's squishy. I don't think bug bites make your fingers squishy."

"What do you know about it? When did you become an entomologist?" Vanessa cupped the digit to her chest.

"Let me see it."

"No. It's mine. Miiiiine."

Kyle didn't like it when Vanessa spoke like a little kid, but she seemed to think it was cute. It was a habit he'd noticed only after they moved in together. "You should go to the doctor."

"They'll cut it off."

"That's ridiculous."

"You don't know. When did you become a doctor?"

"Cut it out, Ness."

"You want them to cut it off. You never liked that finger."

What the hell was she talking about? Kyle worried that it was worse than he'd thought; maybe there was some sort of venom oozing into her brain.

"You never liked that finger. You won't kiss it. You don't want it in your mouth."

"That's not true."

"Prove it." She held her hand forward regally, the questionable finger drooping slightly below the others.

Was it going green? Perhaps--the whitest of greens, the green of seedlings shoving their fragile stems through the dirt. At least he thought it was that kind of green. When did he become a botanist?

Vanessa moved her hand closer to his face, wiggled the finger as much as she could. "Prooove it. What are you, chicken?"

Though his stomach heaved, he jerked the finger to his lips, then into his mouth. He wrapped his tongue around it and licked and sucked and bit and all the while Vanessa squealed, "you're hurting me, you're hurting me."

To Be Reasonable

It was one of those mistakes, the kind your mother warns you against, the kind for which the internet ridicules you, and Amy knew it was one of those mistakes, but she did it anyway. She got his name tattooed along her collarbone because she wanted it to hurt as much as her desire. He always made smart observations in class, with a dazed look in his eyes and a half smile on his lips--sort of like he was high, but he didn't do that too often. Sometimes he held multiple pens between his teeth, so Amy thought it was love. He told her to be reasonable, so she got it tattooed in black ink, Times New Roman.

That summer he moved back to California.

Now Amy digs at the tattoo with a safety pin because she wants her insides to be as hard as scar tissue, and because she wants to remind herself how ugly mistakes can be. Don't worry: she ran a lighter over the pin first.

Playtime

I thought about when I was a kid and what made me happy and I thought about blanket forts. Did you ever make those? Blankets draped over chairs and tables and all? Well I thought I'd do one better and knit them a fort. Knitted arches high over knitted carpets, long knitted hallways between the counter and the couch, the computer table and the breakfast nook. I knitted it green and yellow because red's my favorite color and I wanted to save that yarn for myself. It didn't take me as long as you'd think. I'm pretty fast. I learned it on my own, too, from an online tutorial. So I knit room upon room upon room for them to crawl around and explore, their own little labyrinth to get lost in--there were no entrances, of course. I knitted it shut right behind their tiny round butts and they were giggling and I felt like I could breathe for once. It didn't last long, though. Soon they got hungry or something, and their pink mini-fingers found their way through the holes and started tearing the walls apart. Their hands were grimy because I accidentally knitted the dog food inside and I guess they were playing with it. As they ruined all my hard work I thought about how you don't really have to love everything that comes out of your body, like poop or earwax, and that made me feel better.

Internet Lingo of the Damned

Our chatrooms are haunted places with black backgrounds and blue text. The connection is bad, so sending messages can take an eternity. We drag down the phrases we used to know; they suffer with us.

2nite means always and 2moro is a sick joke. IDK is wishful thinking--we cannot help but know.

IMHO: If Mephistopheles had overheard...
FWIW: Fell when I was...
LOL: Living our loss

404 is not simply a nuisance.

Accident

It's that guy

You realize when you step out of your car to get a better look at the damage. You didn't curse when you rear-ended him, but now you wish you could, because he's getting out of his Volvo and you realize

It's that guy

That guy you went on an OkCupid date with six months ago. You thought he was cute enough, and his profile said he liked stargazing, so you went out to the desert at night to do precisely that. You drove out to the desert in that very Volvo, the one whose bumper you've just lightly crushed. You drove out there with a blanket and a bottle of red wine and you thought this is exactly the kind of thing my mother warned me not to do and you thought it is a decent place to dump a body and you thought at least I'll die in a beautiful place, beneath the stars.

You didn't die, though.

In fact, you thought the date went pretty well. You made out for a while, and even though he was slightly too enthusiastic with his tongue, you weren't about to complain. But he never called you again, and you got angry with yourself for going out with a guy who lists "stargazing" as one of his interests, because how cliché is that? 

That guy doesn't remember you. He's pissed, but he keeps his voice down. For a moment you wonder if you should remind him. You decide against it. You exchange insurance information. He drives away.

You examine the front of your Oldsmobile. Barely a scratch. That thing's going to last forever.

Cons and Cons

I hardly think not changing the toilet paper roll is grounds for divorce. If we're going to fuck all this up, surely we can think of a better reason.

Like how I watch so much porn. Women aren't supposed to like that, right? Of course, you always watched it with me, which is one of the major reasons I married you in the first place.

Maybe that's a good excuse. "I find it hot that you like porn" probably shouldn't be a major reason for marriage.

You probably thought I loved you.

That probably pisses you off.

Or what about your cat? You know I'm allergic, and you have to admit it's fucking irritating when it scratches on the bedroom door at 5 a.m.

Credit card debt. A newfound interest in religion. Hamburger Helper. Conflicting astrological signs.

Magic Eraser

* * * * * All my memories GONE with just one swipe!!! July 29, 2013

By Carrie Dee

Size Name: 8-Count Box

I'm something of a serial mover--don't like to stay in any one place too long. Whenever I decide to head to a new city (or country--I'd go to a new planet if I could), the first thing I do is go to the store and buy a box of Magic Erasers. These things really are unbelievable, and so easy to use. You just wet it in the sink, squeeze out the extra water, and scrub away. 

Scummy shower walls? Gone like magic. Perpetually water-streaked kitchen sink? Gone like magic. Scuffed floors from failed attempts to teach yourself how to tap dance? Gone like magic. Headboard-banged wall after you and that shithead from Dairy Queen went at it for a few weeks and then he never called you back? Gone like magic. Stained countertop from that time you brought the neighbor kids over to dye Easter eggs without their mother's permission and when she caught you the baby was so scared she knocked over her cup? Gone like magic. Ashy cabinet bottoms after carelessly burning photographs of your father and his significantly younger third wife? Gone like magic. 

It all disappears so beautifully. I don't know how they do it. Anyway, Magic Erasers are perfect for anyone moving on in life. You can't take the past with you, and you certainly don't want the new tenants to see all those filthy remnants of your life. Mr. Clean's the best magician for the job.

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A Royal Advert

Her Royal Highness Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge seeks a full-time Lady-in-Waiting.

Candidates must possess a well-rounded education, impeccable manners, and the wherewithal to know when their opinion is truly needed. A strong sense of style is preferred, though an applicant's beauty should not exceed that of the Princess.

Must be unmarried. Must be comfortable keeping state secrets. Major duties will include running errands for and with Her Highness, entertaining Her Highness between engagements, consistently maintaining a calm and generally pleasant appearance and attitude, and otherwise assisting the Princess in any way she desires.

Experience with children is an absolute necessity. Because Her Highness must return to her royal duties almost immediately upon giving birth, care of the Royal Family's newest member will frequently fall to the Lady-in-Waiting.

As is only fitting, candidates must be citizens of the United Kingdom (ideally England). Ladies of noble blood preferred, but considering that the Princess herself was once a commoner, this trait is not strictly necessary.

Interested parties will please apply at http://www.dukeandduchessofcambridge.org/

Failed Screenplay

INT: A MOVIE THEATER.

Scott and Anya sit together, whispering over the previews.

ANYA

Oh my God! This is the trailer for the new Tarantino movie.

SCOTT

Oh, yeah. I heard that he--

ANYA

Shut up.

They sit in silence as they watch the trailer. Anya is riveted to the screen. Scott slurps his oversized soda. 

CUT TO: MOVIE TRAILER

*****

INT: A CUBAN CUSTOMS OFFICE, 1950s - CONTINUOUS

The customs officer looks over Jedediah's documents.

MOVIE ANNOUNCER

He came from nothing...

CUSTOMS OFFICER

Where are you from? We get all sorts from Florida, but I have never heard of this place.

JEDEDIAH RICH

It's a small fishing village.

CUSTOMS OFFICER

You like to fish?

JEDEDIAH RICH

No. I have other interests.

INT: RADIO IN JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Shot of radio, pan out slowly.

MOVIE ANNOUNCER

But when destiny presents itself...

OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER 

All of Cuba's in a tizzy as Hannah Everett,

EXT: THE CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO, HAVANA - CONTINUOUS

Hannah Everett emerges from a white Rolls Royce. Continue radio voiceover.

OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER

the prominent socialite, arrives in Havana. Ms. Everett is the current owner of the notorious Poison Glory,

INT: A SAFE INSIDE THE CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO - CONTINUOUS

Shot of diamond in the safe, pan out slowly. Continue radio voiceover.

OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER

the world's largest diamond. But she may not own it for long--its previous owners have all

EXT: TROPICAL GRAVEYARD - CONTINUOUS

Hannah Everett tosses a flower onto a coffin about to be buried. Continue radio voiceover.

OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER

suffered horrible, untimely deaths!

INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Jedediah sits up straight in a high-backed chair, confident.

MOVIE ANNOUNCER

He'll take everything.

JEDEDIAH RICH

My name's Jedediah Rich, and rich is exactly what I intend to be.

CUT TO: MOVIE THEATER 

*****

INT: MOVIE THEATER - CONTINUOUS

We hear a car exploding on screen. Anya's eyes widen. Scott reaches for her hand but thinks better of it.

CUT TO: MOVIE TRAILER

*****

INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Jedediah sits in his high-backed chair. Pablo stands in front of him, pacing back and forth occasionally.

PABLO SANCHEZ

You know I'd like to get back at those rich white motherfuckers as much as the next guy, amigo. But how we gonna do it?

JEDEDIAH RICH

The California Palms is just a casino like any other. 

PABLO SANCHEZ

Not so! No other casino has Diego Martinez. He don't let nobody fuck him.

JEDEDIAH RICH

Is that so? Plays hard to get? Well, we'll just have to court him first.

INT: CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO FLOOR - CONTINUOUS

Diego walks up to Jedediah, who is standing near a blackjack table. They shake hands.

DIEGO MARTINEZ

Welcome to The California Palms, Mister Rich. Would that be the Charleston Riches? The Chicago Riches, perhaps?

JEDEDIAH RICH

Something like that.

INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Jedediah's conversation with Pablo continues.

JEDEDIAH RICH

But make no mistake...

INT: CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO BANQUET HALL - CONTINUOUS

Hannah approaches Jedediah. She raises her hand, he kisses it. She is all smiles.

HANNAH EVERETT

Mister Rich! I simply had to make your acquaintance. I swear your name's been whispered on the lips of every man and woman in this damned casino.

JEDEDIAH RICH

Ms. Everett, my name's not worthy to be whispered on lips as beautiful as yours.

HANNAH EVERETT

Oh! Don't be so modest. I'm sure--

JEDEDIAH RICH

Well, not yet, anyway.

INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Jedediah's conversation with Pablo continues.

JEDEDIAH RICH

I'm walking out of here with that diamond, come hell or high water.

CUT TO: MOVIE THEATER

*****

INT: MOVIE THEATER - CONTINUOUS

We hear a montage of violence--gunshots, stabbings, screams, blood spatter, explosions, etc. Every so often Scott winces at the gore. Anya remains enthralled.

CUT TO: MOVIE TRAILER

*****

INT: CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO EXECUTIVE OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

Diego sits behind his lavish desk. Jedediah stands before it, hands behind his back.

MOVIE ANNOUNCER

Michael Fassbender is Jedediah Rich...

DIEGO MARTINEZ

You are not so clever as you think, Mister Rich.

JEDEDIAH RICH

Oh, I don't claim to be clever. I'm just here to claim that diamond. It's my name. It's my fate. 

DIEGO MARTINEZ

There's no such thing as fate. 

Jedediah smirks

JEDEDIAH RICH

Well I guess you and me'll just have to agree to disagree.

INT: BACKSIDE OF BAR IN CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO - CONTINUOUS

Jedediah and Pablo are ducked down behind the counter to avoid rapid, relentless gunfire.

MOVIE ANNOUNCER

...in Quentin Tarantino's...

JEDEDIAH RICH

Pablo, will you despise me?

PABLO SANCHEZ

What the fuck, man?!

JEDEDIAH RICH

When I fulfill my destiny, when I take that diamond, will I just be another rich white motherfucker to you?

PABLO SANCHEZ

No. You'll be my rich white motherfucker.

CUT TO BLACK SCREEN WITH TITLE 

MOVIE ANNOUNCER

Poison Glory. Coming to theaters this Christmas.

CUT TO MOVIE THEATER

*****

INT: MOVIE THEATER - CONTINUOUS

Trailer ends. As the next preview starts, Scott and Anya resume their conversation.

SCOTT

Wow. That looks--

ANYA

Amazing!

SCOTT

Sure. God, your hair smells so good.

ANYA

What?

SCOTT

Do you ever feel like your life is a movie?

ANYA

What was all that about my hair again?

SCOTT

Doesn't matter. Answer the question.

Anya sighs, starts scrolling on her phone.

ANYA

I don't know. Sometimes I narrate what I'm doing in my head I guess.

SCOTT

No, that's not what I mean--although I do that, too. Like, do you ever feel like your life is scripted, though?

ANYA

Scripted by you?

SCOTT

No, by somebody infinitely better. By somebody Oscar-worthy. Don't you ever feel like things just fit together so perfectly that somebody must have planned it all out?

ANYA

Nothing's perfect. It's all messy.

SCOTT

Like maybe there are cosmic cameras filming your every move, and when you die you get to see it all again.

ANYA

I don't believe in fate.

Scott finally takes her hand.

SCOTT

And you've never wanted to?

Anya pulls her hand away.

ANYA

Not particularly.

Scott twists away from her and shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

ANYA

You're just too sentimental, Scott.

Scott says nothing, continues eating popcorn.

ANYA

I guess I just prefer all my sentiment to stay on the silver screen. I'm a practical person. To me, sentiment in real life just seems...I don't know. Gaudy, I guess. Like plastic columns painted to look like marble. In some place totally inappropriate and unnecessary, like a shopping mall.

SCOTT

You're not practical. You're heartless.

ANYA

Whatever. I'm going to go. I've seen this one before, anyway.

She stands.

ANYA

You know what? Fuck you. Good luck finding a leading lady.

The Joke

What's black and white and red all over?

Your face after I punched it because you kissed Suzy Flanders behind the bleachers at the Homecoming Game. You thought I wouldn't be there because I don't like sports, but you forgot all about my big sister in the marching band. Ba-da-le-da ba-da-da-da-da dum dum went the drumline. Pow! went my fist, all comic-book loud and vibrant, straight into your formerly-perfect nose. I bruised my knuckles, but as the blood dripped over your lips I knew it was worth it. You became nothing more than a punchline, and my broken heart hurt a little bit less.

Die Young

Clarice looked at the next question on the career test:

27) Imagine you lived in a glass house. What sort of landscape would you prefer to see outside your windows?

     A) Streets

     B) Fields

     C) Skyscrapers

     D) Castles

     E) Sea

     F) Sky

What the hell kind of a question is that? First of all, streets and skyscrapers and castles aren't exactly landscapes. They are built upon land--by definition, not part of the land. Sea and sky aren't really land, either. Is this a trick question? Are you supposed to say "fields" because it's the only actual type of landscape in the list?

And what do landscapes have to do with potential careers anyway? If she selects B, does that mean she'd make a good farmer? If she selects C, should she become a Wall Street tycoon? Hell no. Clarice hopes the test isn't that transparent, but she wouldn't be surprised. For all their big talk, adults are fucking dumb.

Where's "dirt" on this list?

     G) Dirt

That's what she'd select if she could. All Clarice wants to do is graduate from high school, move to a big city and end her life in some glamorous way, like a heroin overdose or slit wrists. She doesn't want to have a career at all. She doesn't want to grow old and tired and pathetic.

She selects C, since cities are the best place to die young.