Wesley Meyer stood on the bank of the Seine with a cigarette in one hand and an overloaded suitcase in the other. He eased the suitcase from the shore and forced it into the deeper water. His bright clothing escaped the suitcase and floated to the surface. He crossed “dispose of clothing” off a list he had been holding in his pants pocket. No one passing by seemed to notice his actions. Wesley Meyer had traveled to Paris to die.

Wesley had been in Paris for two days, seeing what he considered to be the essential sites: The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and on this day, the Louvre. Wing after wing, with feet begging for relief, Wesley tried to convince himself he wanted to stay in the museum. After weaving through one too many clusters of Europeans, he decided to leave. His stomach turned as he placed his headset on the ground and followed the signs towards the door.

Throughout the day, he slipped Euros to women and children, skinny street performers, and silent beggars on woven mats. He purchased cups of strong European coffee to try to subdue the headache that was forming in the base of his neck. At the final café, the man behind the bar commented in English that he looked “like he could use sleep much more than a cup of coffee.” Wesley smiled at the man’s observation. At dusk he headed for what would potentially be his third and final hotel.

The hotel lobby had far too many sofas and tiny tables. The din created by the voices of tourists and the wheels of luggage carts threatened to inflame his headache once again. If only he could lie down for a few hours. The concierge humored his broken French and told him a hair dryer would be provided for him if he needed it.

When Wesley entered the room, he walked over to the window and closed the curtains. Over the bed, there hung a piece of unfortunate hotel art, a landscape of some French hills. He lay down on the tiny bed, his mind churning with memories from home and his final plans. He remembered the awkward moments of his everyday life; those silent minutes on an overburdened elevator, how he stammered while ordering complicated coffee, and how it took him hours of failed attempts to fall asleep. He thought of how he could never seem to add muscle to his frame, despite hours of exercise. He soothed himself with thoughts of how he would end his life that night. How months earlier he conceived of a plan to travel to Paris to kill himself in the bathtub with some sort of high voltage electrical device. And how French authorities would eventually find his body and be forced to contact the States for transport. The whirring of the room fan interrupted his thoughts, distracting him enough to fall asleep.

When he awoke, he was filled with a sense of urgency. Italian tourists in the hallway spoke loudly and excitedly about wherever they were headed. This was the time to hurry up and perform the task. He opened the door to his hotel room and saw that a hairdryer had been delivered as he requested at the front desk. He picked up the hairdryer and headed towards the bathroom. He turned on the light and scanned the small room. He looked at the mirror and quickly turned away from his own reflection. He noticed the towels and complementary soaps. But as he continued to glance around the room he noticed there was no bathtub.

The hairdryer fell from his hands and hit the floor, landing beneath the sink. At that moment Wesley realized that he could not kill himself without the bathtub. He leaned against the sink and pressed his head against the mirror and thought about how many bathtubs there must be in the city and how it would still be possible to find another room and another hairdryer. He picked up the phone and dialed a long series of numbers. After two rings a woman picked up the phone “Hello?” Wesley took two controlled breaths and then spoke calmly and deliberately, “I’m going to need you to get me a ticket home.”