The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

I'm so sorry things went the way they did. I know I was an asshole and I would do anything to make it up to you if you'd let me. I know you're hurt, but you can't just shut me out after all we've been through together. Give me a chance to explain. If I could see you, talk to you, I'm sure we could work it out. This last week has been hell without you. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't paint. You're all I think about. I hate sleeping in this lonely studio, waking up every morning and reaching for you, only to find there's no one there. Look, I know what I did was wrong, but don't you think I've been punished enough? I miss you so much. Things will be different from now on I swear. Please call me, Mona. I need to hear your voice.

I still love you.

Daniel

Mona shook her head and added the single sheet of expensive sketch paper to the fire. It was really a pathetic little fire, nothing but dark, glowing coals and pale tongues of reluctant flame in the centre of the wide brick fireplace. It perked up a little with this latest addition, flaring bright and then dying down again. There was not much nourishment to be had from the leftovers of Mona's dead relationship.

All that was left was a handful of postcards from his trip to Paris. She fed them one by one to the fire, glancing only briefly at their charming little messages full of I love you and I miss you and sprawling doodles of hearts and spirals. She later found out he was fucking at least three different women during that trip. Burning these last shreds of their relationship was particularly satisfying.

As the postcards curled and blackened, their sweet lies devoured by the hungry flames, Mona felt giddy and light, buoyed up by her new freedom. Of course there had been tears and anger and broken dishes, but that seemed like a thousand years ago. Now, she felt cleansed and streamlined, stripped down to fighting weight. There was nothing left in the Magazine Street apartment that wasn't hers alone. She wandered slowly through the long rooms, touching things with strange reverence. Her curmudgeonly old word-processor, her spaceship-console stereo, bought with the unwieldy lump of money that accompanied the sale of her first novel. A glass bowl of chalky grey bone fragments gleaned from badly maintained graves in the city's many cemeteries. Tacky, colourful beads from her first Mardi Gras. Her things, her history. The uneven but sturdy shelves she constructed out of cannibalized scraps of wood and glass. A pair of spidery chairs she rescued from the trash and painted silver. Models of classic monsters, Frankenstein's creation and his bride, the tortured Wolf Man and the tragic Mummy, the Phantom of the Opera and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, all built and painted when Mona couldn't bear to look at the flashing cursor for another second. They were a habit that had horrified Daniel. He called them the most trashy, paint-by-numbers kind of non-art. But they were still here and Daniel and his ART were gone and this made Mona smile. It was as if there had never been a Mona-and-Daniel. There was only Mona, now and for ever. A little wiser and a lot stronger, ready to get out there and kick the world's ass.

She stripped and showered, luxuriating under the cool spray for nearly an hour. She sang "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair" while she shaved the long, silky hair from her armpits. She only stopped shaving because Daniel thought it was sexy, so now she laughed as yet another fragment of the past went swirling down the drain.

Clean and fragrant, her skin still rosy from the shower, she sprawled across her new, post-Daniel sheets, on sale at Wool-worth's for nineteen dollars ninety-nine cents. They were dark, inky purple and smelled of innocence and fabric softener. Smiling to herself, she masturbated. She did not fantasize about anyone. Instead she dreamed of silk and water and the smell of her own skin. With each new orgasm, she felt empowered, propelled into the future.

8/17/01

Hey Mona,

You foxy bitch you. How the hell are ya? How's life in sultry New Orleans? You know I read your new book. It rules of course. Things are pretty cool here, workin hard and getting some decent sessions, but you know it's a boy's life and most guys don't trust a chick drummer (even a brilliant rhythm-goddess like myself). But I'm livin well and I got a loft in Willy-B where no one complains if I play all night. Life is good.

So anyway, my real reason for writing (besides undisguised lust for your body) is that Lulu and me are cutting a demo with this mad bass player named Nocturna and we wanna do "Blush". It was your best song and we'd really love it if you would come and sing. Come back to NYC and be Diva Demona again, just for a day, for old times sake. We'll even send you a ticket. Pretty please with sugar on top! We need to hang out and catch up. Maybe roll around with no clothes on. It's been too long, lady. I miss you.

Big love and a sloppy tongue-kiss,

Minerva