My neighbor down the hall committed suicide this morning.

Mrs. "A" was a lovely Chinese woman with a sweet husband; I'd say she was over fifty but under seventy if that makes any sense (I'm a terrible judge of age). I'd see her shopping, coming back with stuff in orange bags from Chinatown or big bulk packages from some suburban shopping club. A very sweet lady.

Once, she asked me where my (ex) husband was and I told her that he'd moved out. She nodded, and said, with little hesitation, "Men...they're trouble."

I realized I hadn't seen her for a while; I didn't realize it actually until my next-door neighbor, in his fake-tan glory, grabbed my shoulder and whispered "This is terrible...Mrs. A jumped out the window...her son is here, this is terrible...I just wanted you to know, she was sick, cancer, kidneys" and then rushed into the elevator shaking his head as I stood stunned in our 16th floor hallway.

Poor Mrs. A. Poor Mr. A. and their son.

Our building is a murder weapon; an instrument of death. Our home - her home - was the last place she saw before flying away.

I didn't walk through the backyard where she must have fallen. I may, later.

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