You’re never gonna get it right.
“Are you really dying?” I say.
“Yes! Jesus, fuck, do you think I’d lie about that,” she says. She jumps up onto the counter and sits there with her legs crossed.
“Are the pills going to help?” I ask. I’m looking around for more to drink but I don’t see anything.
“They’re not going to cure me, if that’s what you mean,” she says.
“So why do you take them?”
“For pain, for sadness, for vertigo, for restless legs.” she ticks symptoms off on her fingers. Tick, tick, tick. She might be lying about all of it, I can’t tell. There’s something about her. A paleness, or a transparency, or a vague blur about the edges. If you look at her too directly she disappears and if you turn your head away from her she is clear and bright in your periphery. Her eyes are very blue and her hair is dirty blonde and when she looks at you it’s like she doesn’t like you. It’s like she’s just stomaching you for the moment because fuck it, what else is she going to do? She has time, you know? She’s dying, but she still has time.
