MAD WOMAN

“Why do you think people say their vows?”

Femme asked, her voice light, almost innocent, as she balanced her glass of red wine in one hand.The wine swirled slightly, but she held it with the practiced ease of someone who had spent plenty of time in high-end places. Femme reclined back easily into the plush, costly armchair in the hotel lobby, shifting her weight with nary a murmur from the deep red velvet cushions.

The reception area surrounding her was quiet. Soft lighting, elegant furnishings, and the faint murmur of conversations was all was.“I mean,” she continued, her body angling slightly forward as if she were about to solve some great mystery,

“People really take their time, weaving words—poetic, romantic… almost like they’re trying to be Shakespeare, don’t you think?” She trailed off, a small, almost playful smile curling at the corners of her lips, as though the thought of it amused her. Like she was genuinely trying to understand, but something in her tone suggested she wasn’t sure if it was all just a bit ridiculous.

“My husband wrote me a poem as a vow…” Femme said softly, her gaze fixed on the woman across from her. “He asked if the heavens could barely hold me because I was just so beautiful…” She let the words hang in the air, as though considering them, the corners of her mouth twitching in a strange mix of amusement and disbelief.

The woman across from her, a perfect stranger, had unfortunately become the target of Femme’s unwanted attention. She sat there, minding her own business, giving no indication that she wanted to be drawn into any conversation. Certainly not with someone who seemed so out of place, so clearly lost in her own world of mockery and tangled emotions.

“Do you think I’m still beautiful?” Femme suddenly asked, her tone shifting, laced with an almost childlike vulnerability as she jumped to a new topic, catching the woman off guard.

The woman hesitated, unsure of how to respond. Before she could gather her thoughts, Femme continued, as if the question hadn’t even needed an answer, her words slipping out as though she were speaking to herself.

“I think I’m still pretty,” She murmured, almost absentmindedly, her gaze unfocused. “But… older. Definitely older…” Her eyes glazed over, a sad look passing through her features as she stared at the quiet lobby.

For a moment, the woman couldn’t help but think that Femme was a beautiful woman, not older as she suggested. Nevertheless, the woman found herself wishing that Femme would stop talking. It felt strange and uncomfortable to hear all these raw, vulnerable confessions from a complete stranger. Such intimate thoughts surely didn’t belong in a hotel lobby.

“We grew up together…” Femme suddenly spoke, her voice taking on a strange, distant tone.

“You know, me and my husband,” she clarified, mistaking the look on the woman’s face as confusion, when in reality, the woman’s desire was nothing more than to escape this conversation.

“We came from a humble family,” Femme continued, her eyes momentarily distant, “and when we started dating, he used to make me artificial flowers, promising that once we made it, he’d buy me a million bouquets.” She laughed, the sound hollow.

“I told him that was too much, but he said nothing was too much when it came to me.” She leaned back slightly. “You know… we first made love in a hotel, not like this.” She waved a dismissive hand around lavish space, as if the opulence was foreign to her.

“It was a cheap motel he could afford, but he decorated it… far from home, far from prying eyes.” The woman didn’t need to hear this. She didn’t want to be involved in Femme’s fragmented memories, especially from someone whose eyes held a haunted look—like a ghost of something that had been lost.

Feeling increasingly uneasy, the woman stood up and proceeded into reception, expecting to see if her room was ready. She was advised to wait. Turning back, she hoped for an empty seat, but to her dismay, all were taken. With a deep breath, she resigned herself to returning to her old seat, which had become an innocuous noose.

“Are you married?”

Just as the woman sat back down, Femme’s voice cut through the silence, and she leaned in slightly, her gaze intense. The woman inhaled sharply, instinctively wanting to shut her down, but before she could speak, Femme continued, her tone suddenly sure of herself.

“You are married,” Femme said, her voice a little too knowing.

“My husband can afford this hotel now,” she added, leaning back against the couch, her expression momentarily clouded with pain.

“Congratulations?” The woman echoed, her voice flat and uncertain, caught in the crossfire of Femme’s strange mix of pride and sorrow.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to the words that seemed both a celebration and a mournful admission, as if Femme herself were unsure whether to be pleased or crushed by the reality.All she could do was pity the husband. Having to deal with such an unstable woman must be hard.

Femme let out a hollow smile, her eyes distant, unfocused.

“It’s funny,” she mused, voice eerily calm. “I don’t know whether to be pleased or offended by what you just said.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, like a sudden storm, her expression twisted—her anger, raw and undiluted, crashed against the woman across from her. The shift was so sharp, so unfiltered, that the woman instinctively shrank back, her hands tightening around the stem of her glass.

“You know what I feel?” Femme leaned forward, voice dangerously low.