The woman is sitting by the fish tank. Lights dim. She crosses downstage, takes out a cigarette. She is interested in it for its cinematic value––not the things it can offer her but the things it can offer the world about her. It is vaguely specific, in the way that a dinner party is specific, a vintage bookstore, a painting. Smoking kills, says a voice offstage. It is her mother, she thinks. Sometimes, some times, times stop and time stops. The fish tank glows electric in the dark with the bulb of the anglerfish. Light dims, lights trap, light as illusion, light as seduction. Life kills, the woman responds. In fact the killing is central to its operating mechanism. Claustrophobia, enclosure. The grave in the corner of the yard that the dog keeps digging up. Do small things always have to be about capitalism. What about: I got you a present. I found a rock on the side of the road and I thought of you. I am shining a path for you in these waters. The killing is indeed central to the operating mechanism. Lights go on, applause, many bows. Encore! The whole point is to say it knowing it will never happen again.

Sofia Kwon (she/her) is a senior at Columbia College studying English and Creative Writing concentrating in fiction. When she's not writing, you can find her singing with her a cappella group or reading a new short story collection.