I move closer to him, closing the door to my studio silently behind me, and staying in the shadow cast by the stairs. I could tell him about the shortness of his time, I think, and maybe the course of his life would be altered and he would live on for a good few decades. Or else, I could turn him; I could stretch his tiny life to oblivion, distorting it in the process, making it strange and unnatural like mine. I can’t decide what to do. I stay very still. He has his phone in his hand now, and he’s texting. Then my own phone vibrates in my pocket and he turns around, squinting in my direction.

“Lyd?” he says. I see how beautiful his little life is; it kind of glistens in this light, perfectly formed, even though it is short. It’s irresistible. I step out of the shadow and, immediately, Ben’s expression changes—he looks shocked, and frightened. I must look mad and monstrous, filled with other people’s lives. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and see that it is covered in blood.

“What—” Ben begins, but I tell him to be quiet, and I smile, and then I take him by his arms and squeeze him, lifting him slightly off the floor; and then I bend over him and wrap my body around him, my chin on his shoulder, my neck against his neck, feeling his pulse as if it is mine. As I drop him, I take my keys out of my pocket, and then open Ben’s hand and place them inside it. “I have to go,” I say.

Ben doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, his mouth open, blood from my mouth smeared on his skin. And then I leave; I leave Ben’s life intact—tiny and beautiful—and my own life with him, behind me.

Acknowledgments

Thank you—

To Nina Efimova, for your puppets—the puppet Baba Yaga exists in these pages because, a century ago, you made her from wood and an old, stained kitchen rag.

To Bernice Bing, Amrita Sher-Gil, Mirosław Bałka, Joseph Beuys, La Monte Young, Senga Nengudi, and Caravaggio—for your art, which helped shape Lydia into the artist she is.

To chefs and people celebrating Asian cuisines, everywhere. Throughout Woman, Eating, Lydia harbors an obsession with Japanese food; only at the end does she recognize her desire for Malaysian food too. I wanted her first taste of Malaysian cuisine to be a good one—the fragrant rice, broken noodles, and crispy ground lamb she enjoys at the end are dishes created by Julie Lin of Julie’s Kopitiam in Glasgow. The pandan dessert is Madame Chang’s pandan kaya.

To my family, who have offered me endless support—my Jiji and Baba, Tomoji, Eriko, Ayano, Reiko, and Albert.

To friends—Yasuko, Charles, Erika and Amy, Misa and Grim, Ai, Shin, Megumi and Noriko, Rory, Liz, Yunhan, Su, Hugh, Becka, James, Chris, Kat, Vinny, and Marion; Charlotte, for our friendship like Hovis; Misha, for listening always, for Glebe; Jess, my stein; and to others whose names I haven’t listed—for your love and support.