[...] That’s the feeling in the air as she stands and looks out over the water during what will become the last ten minutes of her life not only as a character but as a soul because she’s mine and my soul, and not only did I make her but she made me—she gets, standing there, that feeling you get in the summer on hot, hot days, of impending evening, a feeling that rises up shortly after two o’clock when the sun, having reached its summer zenith, begins the slow descent into the pines and maples and ragweeds tearing up the edge of the land; the vacant lot behind the cottage seething with dry brittle sounds; fences that lead nowhere. Her body is long and sleek and in a way has reached a zenith (the extra two pounds aside) of perfection that she is aware of fully; she feels hairless and slick and ready to slide into the water, to slip into it, soundlessly, to become part of it; her legs are long and (Tony says) fine, shaved smooth just the night before, oiled down. She ran the flat of her palm along the top of her leg amazed at the sharpness of it; then, straightening herself, she pressed her arms flat to the sides of her thighs, lifted up onto her toes, considered her trajectory and the depth of the lake at the end of the dock, and, out of my control, launched herself into the horizon.