Discretion Warning: this story contains explicit depictions of eating disorders—anorexia, binge eating, and bulimia—and vomiting.

When a woman is to be diaphanous, the term has surpassed its history as a sentimental platitude to a mademoiselle; it is no longer a term to describe her delicate hair and skin, or her soft-spoken demeanor, or the springiness of her gait. When a woman is to be diaphanous, the term becomes quite literal: she is sheer, she is filmy, she is like the opacity of a stretched-out gossamer, pressurized under the heat of an iron, sliced into sheets with the finest blade. The thinness of her skin—not the fairness, but the thinness—is of such intensity that it adheres directly to her organs, and when all porosity in her body has been fastidiously vacuumed, the naked eye can nearly see through her, as if wiped by a holographic agent, and there she is, diaphanous, and utterly, utterly, sublime.
Geneviève was not diaphanous; her skin was too dense and she suffered from a rare genetic disposition that forced her blood to course through her arteries at a velocity nearly twice that of the average French woman, subjecting her body to a risk of deterioration from the most insignificant processes. And for she had not once come across another woman, throughout her girlhood, whom she could confidently render as diaphanous, Geneviève had begun to believe that the term was simply a hoax, which had sprouted from the fanatical fables that were orally passed down generations. She would have lived the entirety of what was left of her life, from her age of twenty-three to forty-one, failing to believe the existence of such a woman, of such a term, if she had not decided to spend that autumn Tuesday afternoon at the Café de Flore.
Seated behind the table nearest the veranda’s floral garden was a being she had never observed in her singular history; the moment she had treaded upon the steps of the establishment, the figure could be distinguished instantly, as if possessing an aura of otherworldly ambiance, containing a concentrated essence of seraphicity. She was, indeed, diaphanous—no, she was beyond that, for there could be no proper word to contain the sacrality of the figure beyond her—and, as if possessed, Geneviève tentatively ambled to the woman, all plans for brunch which she had organized dissipated into thin air, and, stopping gently before the hem of the seraph’s strewn gown, collapsed into the empty chair aside the tea table.
The woman looked up in alarm, which shortly transformed into amusement. She had been scrutinizing a bland pocket-book, with her willowy ligaments of fingers, when this young lady—Geneviève—had intruded upon her serenity. Geneviève apologized immediately. She was young—quite immature—and certainly not the most well-mannered, yet at that moment, she sought repentance for startling this holy figure of a woman, with utmost shame and regret for becoming an intrusion. It was as when a knight surrenders indefinitely to his king, or the prophet kneels below his God; the woman carried an air that was, to Geneviève, beyond the mortal world.
“Apologies, madam. I could not continue to stand after encountering your…” She struggled to catch her words. “…beauté.”
The human diaphane blinked, then, comprehending the situation swiftly, whispered, “You are quite a beauté yourself, madame. Thank you for your compliment. Merci Beaucoup.”
Geneviève leaned forward slightly, absorbing the sight beyond her, the sharp angles of her bones, bridged by thinned tendons and cartilage; her skin was of such sheerity that she could nearly see the osseous matter where her joints bent and stretched. If she were to undo her bodice and expose her abdomen, Geneviève believed she would see the outline of her beating heart, behind her vacuumed ribs, pink in translucence, sandwiched meticulously between compact tissues.
“Madam, I must say, you are nothing short of a seraph. How were you to reach your current standing of delicacy?”
“Oh, and why do you ask?”
“Must I say with my own mouth? It is feminine admiration!”
The woman laughed, pitiful, fragile puffs of airy breath. “Mon amie! You are adorable. Such a simple question you are asking—it is simply food! I do not eat!”
At this, Geneviève abruptly realized that the tea table in front of the woman was bare, save the pocket-book, with not a single crumb from a dessert hours before, or a puddle from dripped coffee or tea remaining; for the woman, the Café was not to eat or drink, but to simply trace time.
“None? At all?”
The woman puffed again. “Well, of course, I have a lightweight beverage here and there. Or a small serving of Salad Niçoise. But no, Madame, I do not enjoy eating!”
Geneviève fell into a small silence. “And your name, Madam?”
“Blanchet. Jeanne Blanchet.”
“Geneviève Fournier.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Madame Fournier.”
Geneviève nodded a dazed greeting, and sat in silence. She could feel the despondency in her once-stagnant heart grow, a feeling of sheer disgust towards her own body which she had never felt before, towards the thickness of her skin, her collection of lardy organs. She stared at the pristine surface beneath the woman’s forearms and, with a start, realized that the woman did not smell of even the tiniest smidge of food, which all human beings seemed to possess. She sniffed surreptitiously and concentrated on the string of fragrance that emanated from the woman’s skin.
There is a peculiar smell that is shared by all of the thinnest, sheerest women; it is an aroma of such singularity that it cannot be forgotten, and just like the women who possess this scent, it is immensely delicate—translucent, even—as if the scent is condensed into a miniscule oil-bottle in the centre of their hearts and meticulously poured out by the molecule, gradually, precisely, until it reaches one’s nose and immediately dissipates away. It is the scent of emaciation: the odor of malnutrition, of a soul hissing away through the pores of the skin, evaporating off droplets of sweat; yet to Geneviève, it was the fragrance of salvation, of utmost beauty carried throughout the world, redolent of micellar water and honeysuckle and damp cloth and the slightest hint of cigarette vapor. What she had smelt evanescently through fractions of her memory was no longer transient in the air beyond her, but continued, pressed out from the woman’s pores, exuding from the hologram of her structure, as if she was the concept of infinity herself, producing strains of this impeccable scent without end. Geneviève was entranced. She was hypnotized by this concept—of reaching what she viewed as angelic, which boiled down to—starvation.
She relished in this fragrance until her nostrils could no longer sense it; then, with an acute urgency, she scribbled her postal address onto a piece of scrap paper, pressed for the woman to write to her shortly, and hurried home.

*

One of the simplest ways Geneviève could extract the density of her sappy body, she had realized, was to immerse herself in a bath of near-boiling water, salted precisely with eighty-eight grams of rosemary Epsom, for a period of at least two hours. At forty-five minutes, she felt slightly light-headed, then at one hour, nauseous; once she reached an hour and a half, her toes would begin to numb, and at two hours, she could barely see through the yellow tint of her sight. This was the optimum point—when her adipose fat and tissues would begin to soften, then liquefy, from the very crevices of her liver and lungs, seeping out of her pores and adsorbing to the salt—and once she would exit the bath, her legs would give out beneath her, and she would crawl to her bedroom, where she would lay in a puddle upon her duvet. Thankfully, her grievous hunger would be temporarily seared into paralysis.
She could no longer recall the taste of food, for she—adamant to never become lured by its devilish seduction—had expunged all contents of her pantry the very evening she had encountered the seraph. She did not cut herself of water, yet limited consumption to a maximum of two cups a day, only taken when she had accrued the most excruciating torture of starvation. Geneviève had never experienced such determination. All the more, it proved to her that it was a true calling, from the heavens, to reach that most divine state of body; if she was to become as abstemious as the Madame Blanchet, she too, could be diaphanous. Absolved from her past sins of gluttony, she would be liberated to utter superiority of humankind.
It had been nearly a month since the encounter when Geneviève—at last—received a letter from Madame Blanchet, marked with a maroon seal and wafted in lemongrass. With sallow fingers, she peeled back the envelope and smoothened the note:

Chère Madame Fournier:

I apologize for my belated letter; I have been quite busy recently, and temporarily misplaced the address you had written for me.

As an apology, I would be keen to invite you, Madame, to a dîner I am holding at my home this Saturday. I feel we have much in common, and I am sure you will enjoy my acquaintances as well. We have only newly met, yet I am highly inspired by your sociability.

I shall send the address shortly. I would truly be delighted to see you then.

Bien à vous,
Jeanne Blanchet

It was extremely concise, yet contained an air of importance that pressed Geneviève to grasp this opportunity immediately. A dinner party! A gathering! She drew her frail index across the third sentence. Acquaintances of the diaphane must be diaphanes themselves, and thus this must be a social to determine the sheerity of these mortal bodies, to winnow out those not qualified, to bestow the term upon only those who were righteous. Here stood the gates! The holy gates!
Geneviève leaped out of bed, peeling forward momentarily from her emaciated calves, and steadied herself. Hobbling over to her desk, she whipped out a fresh letterhead, scribbled down a prompt response of acceptance, and pitched it into her mailbox, where she subsequently toppled to her knees and rested awhile, before dragging herself into the bathroom. She tossed another handful of Epsom into the bath and turned the knob for the hottest temperature, and bubbled down into the boiling pot.
The dîner was merely five nights away; although she had shriveled herself raw during the past month, she would not compare to the women who had been indulging in abstention far longer, and for she could not embarrass herself as a foul glutton, she would melt in that meat-pot for twice as long—four hours—and restrain herself from drinking any liquid for the next five days…

*

Geneviève no longer fit her undergarments; her corset wobbled above her hollow pelvis and the neckline stretched over her gaunt shoulders. Her abdomen curved in, crooking in at her ribs and adhering directly onto her organs—she could see the pink outline of her stomach, the bottoms of her lungs, pressed aside her liver and colon—and although she had quite literally vacuumed the inside of her body, she looked bulky, she thought, for those shriveled organs clumped in groups, preventing her skin from stretching directly onto her spine. With forty-five minutes left until the commencement of the gathering, she tightened her corset around her shameful body, crawled out her front veranda, nearly crumbling under the weight of her gown, and launched herself upon the awaiting carriage, leaving for the holy gates.
She arrived five minutes beforehand, and as she exited the carriage, she momentarily toppled to her side, as the yellow tint she had been increasingly experiencing returned, her blood failed to return to her heart from the sudden exertion of energy, and she thought she was dead—yet soon her heart began to beat faintly again, and the coachman pulled her to her feet. Too dazed to feel embarrassment, Geneviève pushed open the doors of the white mansion and limped in.
Beyond her was a scene she could only describe as heavenlike; through the tall columns, small groups of utterly diaphanous women—not one, but dozens—chattered delicately, in their hands empty champagne glasses, wispy hair tied elegantly to reveal the acute spines which protruded whiteley from their necks, corsets the size of a Bourgogne bottle, hollow cheeks and boned chins, fingers the thickness of knitting pins. At the sound of the doors, they turned to acknowledge Geneviève, polite scrutinization, a mist of smile passing through their faces—although never known for sure, for their jaw muscles had long deteriorated away—and from afar, Madame Blanchet approached her, eyes beaming.
“I am ecstatic to see you, Madame Fournier! How have you been?” she whispered.
Geneviève opened her mouth, yet was disturbed to realize that she could not utter a sound—as when the body is emaciated, the muscles surrounding one’s vocal cords dissipate as well, and for Geneviève had remained silent during the isolation of her starvation, she had quite literally forgotten how to speak.
“I understand, Madame. You cannot speak. It is a common experience when achieving thinness. I am sure you’ll be able to regain your voice with some practice.” She glanced around. “But yes! Make yourself at home! My acquaintances are all wonderful, beautiful women.”
With that, Madame Blanchet promptly left, as Geneviève stood, trembling. In the centre of the ballroom, a long banquet table lay with a plethora of steaming, glossy refreshments—larded mutton with lamb tenderloins, fillets of rabbit a la ravigote, pickled cranberries and candied nuts, tarts and jam—yet was untouched, and not spared a single glance by the women in the room, as if it were a banal portrait. Geneviève sniffed. The scent of savor wafted to her nose, and the yellow tint returned.
“Beautiful wrists, Madam.”
A long woman, with a waist the size of her neck, had approached her from behind.
She continued to whisper. “I truly am blessed to see such beautiful women here, I leave with such motivation every time to better myself. Don’t you agree?”
Geneviève blinked and dazedly squinted around the ballroom. A few of the diaphanes were staring at her, blank, slightly smiling…
“Yet still, beyond all, I have yet to see a woman more beautiful than Madam Blanchet… she is absolutely splendid… the skin of an angel, bones of silk, her blood must run translucent…”
Geneviève could no longer focus. Her sight had turned an acidulous shade of orange, and her ears buzzed; from her flared nostrils danced the scent of the mutton, and sweet jam, the banquet table pulsing behind her retinas, thrusting itself at her, slowly nearing, and it was as if she could taste the meat in her mouth now, its tender flesh melting upon her tongue, as her teeth tore through the Bordelaise drizzle and savored the sweetness of the cranberries with the slightest hint of tart… and the softness of the brioche layered with sour grape, smoothly running down the back of her throat…
There was a faint shriek, and as Geneviève turned, she saw that she was suddenly crouched abut the banquet table, and strewn across her gown were ragged pieces of lamb and rabbit, crushed flakes of tart; across her hands were mutton limbs with cranberry and red wine, and as she looked around, the diaphanes stared in abysmal horror, bony fingers across mouths, and one tumbled to the ground, faint. As the tint faded from her sight, her transiently paralyzed senses returned, and she could feel the food presently sliding down her esophagus, piling in her stomach, pressing against her ribs, her corset, her skin—oh, her soon-to-be diaphanous skin, stretched out to reverse all she had accomplished—and Geneviève felt her watery blood run cold, as she heaved herself up and tottered to the bathroom.
Upon launching herself at the toilet, a string of bile shot out from her throat, and clumps of mutton, followed by sauce-washed lamb; various fruits, unchewed, splashed out; blood—no, wine—commingled with soggy bread and flakes; and then she was heaving up dry breaths, but she could feel the remnants adhered to the sides of her stomach, with all of her senses, burning into her tissue, destroying the diaphane—and she could not stop.
She thrust her right fist against the leather of her abdomen, just below her sternum, and coughed, once, twice, then the blood swelled to her head, bubbled up to her sinuses, as she felt thick material rise to the base of her esophagus, and she could not breathe, as if choking… As she furiously wriggled her fingers down her throat and gripped the soft, doughy material bulging upon the base of her tongue, she could feel—every nerve in her body could see—her innards stretching against each other, pushing, tearing her arteries and vessels, straining to rips themselves apart, to exit her…and as her fingertips slipped from its narrow grip, her lungs crumpled into themselves. In hysteria, she rammed both rickety hands into her mouth, cracking open her jaw, impaling the dough and her flesh, scrabbling at it, as diluted blood spurted up her nostrils—and with a gurgle, ripped her pink, pulpy stomach from her mouth, which squelched onto the floor, followed by her hollowed intestines, unraveling her body…
From the door sounded whispery shrieks and squeals, and the minuscule thuds of diaphanes the weight of mice dropping to the floor. Geneviève could not move from her incapacitated arrangement upon the toilet, cheek pressed against the seat, skin compressing around the serration of her spine, the end of her ileum was gummed to her molars; and through the bloodied yellow tint, she could see her skin, her arms, her withered abdomen, through the fabric of her gown, sheer, translucent, stretched so thin, the opacity of a gossamer, that she could see through it—through it—through the bones and veins and lack of organs, like the woman she had so longed to be, like a seraph, like an irreversible disease, like that fragrance of emaciation, and with her brittle lungs, she emitted a sigh of bliss…
She was diaphanous, indeed.