By Karla Ungurean
Do you need to pay for two nights if you kill yourself in a hotel? I debate ringing the front desk—if only to hear the concierge’s reaction. Would she ask a manager or rifle through notebooks of restaurant recommendations and family activities for some precedent on the subject? Scream and call the cops? I smile. The investigation and crime scene issues would take at least two days, so I figure I’m good.
Out the window I see the mundane existence of human life slog by and feel confident I am doing the right thing. I could jump, but I’m no Evelyn McHale. It would be ugly, knowing my luck.