Seneca was at my apartment that night after my class, when I lurched into the bathroom and threw up in the sink, tossing my head back and looking in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. Seneca quoted again: For the only safe harbour in this life’s tossing, troubled sea is to refuse to be bothered about what the future will bring and to stand ready and confident . . . Some unknown part of myself looking for help in outlandish places. Every hour of the day countless situations arise that call for advice, and for that advice we have to look to philosophy.

They were supposed to be Letters to Lucilius but they had become Letters to Seraphina.

Off I hurtled, for the first time. No more classes, no more paperweights reminding me of what I did, what my mother asked me to do.

The exhilaration of running from yourself, of fleeing your thoughts, your guilt, the sweet momentum you gain when imagination sends a phantom philosopher in pursuit. Never look back, only forward.

Birdie whips around another corner and I start to fly but now my bra is caught on a hook on the van wall and so I snap back and dangle there, arms flapping. Clarity is my enemy, the inflictor of pain. What comes before or after doesn’t matter. My own life spiralling me into vertigo, mixing it all up. My haggard mother driving me to the antique shop in Seabury. To slimy Mr. Burgess. Do whatever he asks. He’ll give us the best price. My mother’s eyes red from lack of sleep, sorting through the mass of bills and collection notices.

The reality is, I hang here like a disabled bat in a red bra. I wore a red bra under my wedding dress because it seemed the only vestige of the rogue I had thought I was. Until we were in front of the preacher.

Actually it started when I saw Elizabeth’s head, the back of her head. I admired her hair and thought what a nice style it was, wondered why it was done so daintily, with little violets in it. She didn’t normally dress like that. The perfection of her bridesmaid updo made my eyes water. But the flowers became fuzzy, one big blob of purple. The floor seemed to tilt. I wondered about this too until I heard, “Psssst.” I jumped. But it was a female voice, not the Roman. It was Birdie. She was at the back, by the door. “Get going. It’s time.”

The violets were blurry because they were now up front at the altar with Darren and the preacher and Darren’s best friend from university who makes bad jokes and smacks everyone on the shoulder. I was still standing at the back of the church. And it all hazed over. The room was tipping. I put my arms out for balance but still the hardwood floor seemed to slant, an illusion.

“Go.” At least Birdie’s voice was clear. And so I went. I went up to the front through the fuzziness, and I wondered if they could see my red bra, at least the suggestion of the bra. It was lacy, really pretty — a push-up. But I didn’t think so. I was the only one who knew about it besides Elizabeth, who had helped me dress. The antique dealer sat in a pew, winking, his wife beside him smiling, wiping a tear with a lace hanky. He was wearing a black suit and sunglasses, like an undercover agent sent from my past, lest I forget my snafus, my terrible choices. Our little secret, Serrie. Come again and I’ll give you a good price on what you bring next, as long as you can stay and visit.