“We’re wearing the same pants,” says the depressed man. I look at our pants. They are the same. 
       “Embodiment is unendurable,” I say.
       “Listen to my heart,” says the depressed man. I put my ear on his chest.
       “Do you hear it?” says the depressed man. “My heart is going doom. Doom-doom. Doom-doom.”
       “Secretly, I want to be adored and accepted by everyone,” I say. 
       “How about me?” says the depressed man.
       “I think it’s what most people want,” I say.
       “I mean, what if I love and adore you?” says the depressed man.
       “You’re not everyone,” I say. “To rely on one person is pathological and codependent.” I feel more sexual in the springtime. The depressed man and I are sitting very close together. I have my palm on his chest.
       “Doom-doom,” says his heart.
       “Okay,” I say. 
       “In return, I want you to make me less lonely and to save me from death,” admits the depressed man.  He looks at me adoringly and acceptingly, because everything is now my fault. 
       “I love you,” I say. I feel embarrassed so I look down at the New York Post on the sidewalk. I try to cover the headlines with my feet but there is another New York Post on the sidewalk, and another, and another.
       “Did you read the article about the Pelham grandmother killed by wild dogs?” asks the depressed man.
       “Not this week,” I say.
       “She was riding around on a sit-down mower,” says the depressed man. “The wild dogs heard the sit-down mower and thought it was a bear, a very weak bear, dazed from hibernation. The wild dogs tore into the grandmother.  She crawled heroically through the yard, the wild dogs hanging off of her, and then she got run over by the lawnmower.”
       “Did you read about the kids who climbed inside the helium balloon at the car dealership?” I say.
       “No,” says the depressed man. “Did they die?”
       “They died,” I say. 
       “You are stupid and unethical,” says the depressed man. 
       “I’m afraid I’m not human,” I say. “Feel this.” I put the depressed man’s fingers on my throat.
       “What am I supposed to be feeling?” says the depressed man.
       “I don’t know,” I say. “What are you supposed to be feeling?” I shut my eyes. I like his fingers on my throat. I wish I had a mechanical larynx. I wish my voice box were a shock collar. I open my eyes and stare at the depressed man. He has a short, depressing beard.
       “Everything I say is painful and important,” I say. I try to increase the voltage in my brain. The depressed man takes his fingers off my throat. I shut my eyes. I smell linden trees. The air is very still. It is room temperature everywhere except on my skin, which is body temperature. I try to stop breathing so as to equilibrate inside and outside pressures.
       “I’m imploding,” I say.
       “Okay,” says the depressed man. He holds me. I implode.     

Buy Joanna Ruocco's novella The Mothering Coven here.

Accompanying images by artist and designer Sarah Gottesdiener.

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