Rᴇʙᴇᴄᴄᴀ, by Daphne du Maurier, is hot tea, English scones, bread & butter, and a single tangerine. Breakfast at Manderley. Open windows, a slight breeze fluttering the delicate curtains. The air saturated with smells of the warm sea. Your body slow and sluggish as you make your way to the table, as if moving in a dream. Hesitation in your gait. The round table is covered in a lavish spread of dishes. Everything hot, fresh, and sophisticated. The blushing raspberry jam clings to the flaky scones, melting butter soaks the bread. Piping hot tea that feels dangerous, powerful. Steam quivering in the air like bungling ghosts, dissipating into the salty air. It’s all very decadent. New. It feels wrong to sit at her place at the table. Improper to be opening her mail. There’s a presence at this table. Not just you, not just him. She is here, in this meal. She is the heat of the tea. She is the seductive red jam, tempting you. She is the soft, pillowy bread. She is the sweet, orange juice of the tangerine, dominating your tongue. Rebecca. And you are the peeled tangerine. Not the nugget of fruit inside but the shell. The husk. The peel. The soaked coat that is removed after a heavy storm. You are set aside. Neglected. Discarded. You are not Rebecca.