A Letter to The Writer

Dear Me,

I want you to remember this part of your life. Remember that you're working a shit job that will get you absolutely nowhere. Remember that everyone you know has graduated from college and you're still barely a sophomore. Remember the constant rejection letters from agents, the fact that you still live with your parents like some horrendous cliché.

Remember your fear of affection and how you don't think you'll ever find love. Remember how it feels to be an outsider in a town you've lived your whole life. Remember what it's like to feel defeated.

Remember this time, and these moments.

Most importantly, remember that you conquered them. Remember that you showed them all.

I don't know who you are or what you're doing or who you're loving, but I know that you figured it out. I know because you're working so damn hard to figure it out right now.

And right now is fucking hard. It blows like a two-dollar whore. You know, too much teeth. But I know that we've made it. Because you're better than I am. You've come farther.

And you'll only go farther.

Love,

Yourself

Lovely Part II

I hurt you once, lovely,
in a fit of self-destruction that
opened my eyes and closed yours.

Well I'll hurt you twice, kid,
make good and sure you won't
hurt me again. I'll lie to you, kid,
I'll push you away,

and you won't even know it's happening
until I'm two states over with a borrowed
name and a new face.

Well, lovely, I can't say it comes as
a surprise, sitting in my bubble
thinking I've finally found
Someone who understands and who cares.

I knew that was too much to ask, lovely,
and I asked it anyway.
Silly, silly kid, that's me.

Look, kid, now's not really
a good time for this. Neither is
tomorrow or next week, maybe,
probably, never ever.

I told you once, kid, I push people
away, and to me you're already gone,
lost at sea,
pushed pushed to still waters and I'm
Long back on shore.

That's okay, lovely,
I'm pretty good at getting by
on my own.

Spent a lot of time in the middle of
nowhere with only my stupid head to
keep me company. I'm used to it,
lovely. By now, I'm used to losing you.

Listen, kid, the truth is hard to hear
and harder to know, but the truth is this—
I don't wanna be found.

I know, lovely, I know.
Don't you worry your pretty little head
about me, lovely,
I'll keep you lost.
I'll stay lost.

The D Word

And here's a clue, it's not diabetes, dementia, dysentery, or dick. The word: diet. It's a word that women think, and talk about, ad nauseum. And how can they help it? The first caption on every magazine cover is how to lose weight by eating more, the perfect workout to shed pounds faster, how to become an entirely different person in 30 days or less without going all American Psycho on someone. And thus the obsession continues.

This is not to judge, because I am one of those women. Should I not eat carbs after six in the evening? If I'm only supposed to eat egg whites, what the hell am I supposed to do with the yolks? How can I possibly be eating 1300 calories a day, working out an hour a day, and still not be losing weight?

The answer to all these questions—nobody but me cares. Sure, everybody will admire a svelte, newly-slim figure from afar, and the women will off-handedly wonder how I did it (while simultaneously hating me for my success), and the men will stare at my ass. But nobody really wants to know how.

I call this the Miracle of Hotness Phenomenon. Men and women will accept that one woman is hotter than another, but nobody wants to know how it's done. It's just like every other cool thing: CGI in a movie, a magician's secret panel, Kim Kardashian's boob job—thinking about the process is not at all fun.

The problem with the Miracle of Hotness: how on earth is a woman supposed to get real advice from a real person when nobody wants to talk about how to get skinnier? Talk to your man about it, he gets bored and annoyed. Talk to your mom about it, she'll tell you you're beautiful. Talk to your best friend about it, and suddenly it's a competition. And constantly trying to one-up your best friend doesn't help your Miracle at all.

So while the Miracle of Hotness remains quietly under wraps, except in obnoxious magazine covers (New Secret to Losing Weight: Eating Nothing But Strawberries and Pepper! And See Insider Special: Hate Your Body? Take a Pill That Rewrites Your DNA!), the rest of us have to struggle without assistance or support, hoping that with enough determination and hours of spinning classes that we will look like Halle Berry.

Of course, there's always the American Psycho option.

Excerpt

Below is a little excerpt from my novel On Cypress Lane. 


Chapter 1

Dishes

The house is empty, and the sink is full of dishes. For a moment that is all Celia knows, in her first few minutes of waking, pulling on a robe, stumbling down the stairs. Then her shoulders return to their ever-tense position, nearer to her ears than they should be, and she moves into the kitchen she knows better than herself. She pours a cup of coffee and sits down on a stool. Celia's never liked chairs with backs, she considers them a crutch. Support nobody really needs. And a waste of wood—she believes in the environment.

She looks at the full sink. Sighs. It's always like this. But no matter how many times she comes down the same stairs to the same sink full of a rotating cycle of the same dishes, she forgets every night until the morning. She forgets that this is her life.

It is somewhat removed from her last life, by distance, time, happiness. She was never happy in her old life, being that person, with that man, and those responsibilities. Here, she is content. She has shed the skin that was once hers and become something new. With this chrome sink, and these ceramic dishes.

Lloyd is at work, as he most often is. Her son is at school, learning how to be a teenager. Nowadays he comes home smelling like cigarette smoke, and thinks she doesn't notice. Of course she notices. Celia still smokes, more than a pack a day, she just hides it better. She shakes her head over her coffee. Silly Gabriel. Deception should really be left to the experts.

Shakespeare never did get the idea of deception right—it is rarely a tangled web. Even the earliest deceptions can be clever, as long as they're based in truth. Celia is one of the experts. Most of her sentences are half-truths, and she has always prided herself on them. Her use of words in a world full of inarticulate, overly-educated people.

Celia rises quickly to her feet, her coffee only half-consumed. The phone is old, rotary dial and in a color of off-white that will never be egg-shell. It weighs heavy in her slim hand. Artist hands. Another feature of herself Celia treasures.

Margot picks up on the second ring. Their phone isn't old, their phone is attached to a Comcast hub, with caller id and call waiting and conference calls—Margot calls them conveniences. But Celia knows that she will never feel the weight of the rotary phone in her artist hands, and that makes her happy.

"Celia, this is early for you!" Margot has a night club singer's voice. Over the years it has been tamed and winnowed down to something more refined, but Celia hears only the crooner that never was. "Something wrong?"

Celia will never be comfortable with the term "wrong". It could be applied to so many parts of her life. She doesn't want her life to be anything but right.

"No, everything's fine. It's good. Would you like to do anything today?"

Margot's frown is audible. "I thought you had an exhibit coming up."

Celia shrugs. Her shoulders don't relax.  "I do. It's in a few weeks though, the rest can wait."

"How are they coming?"

"They're coming along." Celia thinks of the clay in her work-room, the wires that almost make shapes on their wooden stands. She has time. "I don't feel like being cooped up today."

The rotary phone is heavier. She didn't think the conversation would take this long. The sink is still full, and her work room is still full of skeletons.

"Yeah sure, honey. What are you thinking, mini road trip in the Beamer?"

"Yes." It comes out as a sigh of relief. She needs to get out, just for a few hours. Away from her home and her rose-detailed china, away from this phone.

"All right. I'm getting a mani in an hour, but after I'll swing by and grab you. Don't be late. And don't wear those big sunglasses. I know they're Dior, but they were so not worth it."

Celia smiles. She bought those so she could walk her neighborhood unrecognized, without the stigmas of housewife and mother and beautiful woman attached. "I won't."

"Good. Because my baby is all about class. See you in a bit."

"Yes. See you soon." 

Celia hangs up the phone, thinking idly that soon is rarely soon enough. The doctors told her it would be over soon during labor, the lawyer told her it would be over soon during her divorce, Lloyd tells her daily that soon he won't have to work so much. Soon.

The television is tempting right now, the screen reflecting the living room in odd angles and warped sizes. She likes that living room better. But Celia doesn't believe in TV. She believes that it is a crutch, for those not smart enough to deal with the world. And it wastes electricity. She takes rich pride in her own frugality.

Margot arrives as promised, new long nails shining in the sun, tapping on the steering wheel to show off. A childish grin widens her face, and she looks nothing like the cynical bitch the neighbors call her behind her back.

Celia slides into the front seat and flashes a smile. Instead of sunglasses, she wears red lipstick. Margot starts the car, revs the engine a few times solely for the sake of angering the quiet neighborhood, and they speed out of the culdesac. The sink is still full of dishes. But for the first time this morning, Celia doesn't care.

When she was younger, Celia knew that all she needed was art and moonlight. That these two things would make her happy. She grew, and then she knew that all she needed was art and wine and moonlight. That simplicity would make her happy. Later, when she fell in love, and again when she fell out of love, she knew that all she needed was art and wine and moonlight and love. That this would make her life worthwhile. She hasn't added to her list in years. Mostly because now she isn't sure what she needs.

She is reminded of this driving in Margot's car. Sitting in Margot's car. Celia never drives. The wind in her eyes, pulling her hair away from her face as if it would take it from her scalp entirely. This feeling reminds her of her list, and the elusive finish to it. Lloyd and Gabriel make her happy. But they are not on her list. She wonders why.

"Are you sure nothing's wrong?" Margot's voice carries even over the wind. 

"Yes. I'm sure. There is nothing wrong." She hopes anyway. Because if something is wrong, it is she. She who has neither her son nor her husband on her list. She who still smokes and hides the butts like a nervous fifteen year old. She doesn't want to be wrong. "There's nothing wrong." Celia doesn't like repetition. But this statement is more for herself than for Margot. Not as a reassurance, but as a puzzle. Nothing is wrong. There is nothing wrong.

Then shouldn't it be right?

Where Does The Money Go?

I complain a lot. About my job, the weather, my weight, the stupidity of man-kind, the fact that I don't own a pair of Gucci boots. But today I am not going to complain. Today, we are going to do a scientific exploration, delving into a question that plagues the minds of men and women alike: where the hell is my money?

This is not to say that everyone wakes up with his or her money mysteriously missing (i.e. stolen by the sock dryer monster), but that there is always less money than in his or her calculations.

My initial explanation is of course that alien leeches whom only feed on paper cloth with serial numbers are to blame, but further research has led me to an astounding discover—we spend it.

It seems impossible, I know, that with all our careful budgeting and well-intentioned frugality that this should happen, but it is indeed true. I've worked it out mathematically. Please see below what I am calling the Money Vacuum Phenomenon.

Monthly Income - (Cable Bill + Electric Bill + Rent + Internet Bill + Grocery Expenditures + Car Insurance + Gas Money + General Hygiene Products) = Leftovers = Savings and Fun Money

(Savings + Fun Money) - Reasonable Fun Expenditures i.e. the occasional cup of coffee or pack of cigarettes = Savings That Really Ought To Be Saved

Savings That Really Ought To Be Saved - (Well maybe I'll order takeout tonight because I really don't feel like cooking + Ooh, pretty scarf, I don't really need it, but I certainly do want it... + Sale on DVDs? Yes! + Meeting friends for drinks + Buying my poor broke friends drinks + Spontaneous infomercial purchases) =

BROKEDOM

I know that the truth is difficult, my friends, but as you can see, the math doesn't lie. Math is one of the many reasons they invented therapy, after all.

A simplified version of this equation is much more disturbing,

(Monthly Income - Existing As A Human And Thus Fallible Being = Brokedom)

which is naturally why I chose to illustrate the whole thing.

Thus we conclude that the money has not been abducted by alien hooligans or malevolent dimension-crossing sock thieves, but by ourselves.

Lovely

I've got you kid, it'll be just fine.
Telling half-truths and promises,
in songs and poems slammed into a microphone
too tall for you to properly speak into.

Don't worry kid, I'll always be there.
Making vows ashing menthol cigarettes
onto rickety coffee shop tables.
Unless, of course.

Unless unless unless.
Unless you fuck up.

I'll always be there kid,
but I might not respect you in the morning.

But it's okay, lovely,
I've never been a fan of mornings anyway,
and if I sleep through the day
I can just pretend that pesky dawn never happened at all.

But listen, kid, I push people away,
I always push people away.
Honesty over beers and half-formed insights
into your head and your reasons.

Well, lovely, I'm always getting pushed away,
so it looks like we're just a match made in heaven.
Yes, darling, two halves of the same whole.

It's not your fault, kid, I just want
to warn you—it's how I am.

Well let me tell you, lovely, I understand.
I won't be mad, won't make you hold my hand
if you'd rather we didn't talk like we mean it.

Because this, this is who I am,
Holding onto sinking ships, watching train wrecks—
Can't look away.

And lovely, I'll hold onto those empty
promises just like I've held onto all the empty
promises before you and yours.

But don't you worry your pretty little head
about me,
lovely,
I'll be just fine.

The 22 Phenomenon: A Not-Quite Quarter Life Crisis

For my friend's twenty-fifth birthday, I baked him a cake and stuck a gravestone candle in the icing. With a laugh, I told him not to worry, that he was still "over the hill." He's twenty-six now, and though we're no longer friends, I wouldn't have put a gravestone on that cake. There are only so many times you can kick a dead horse before it breaks one of your toes, and you gotta conserve some ammunition for the big 3-0.

I'm not turning twenty-five. Or twenty-six or thirty or ninety-seven (although when I do turn ninety-seven there had better be a gravestone on that cake). In a few weeks I will be twenty-two, and I'm pretty sure that's a little too young to be having a quarter life crisis, but screw the rules ladies and gentlemen, I'm having one anyway.

My best friends from high school are graduating college at the end of this semester. Three years ago, there was no doubt in my ind that I would be too. Robe, degree, educated college grin on my face as I walked. But times change, to everything there is a season, blah-fucking-blah.

But hey, let's not dwell on the past. In the name of living in the now and all that rot. I have a job, a quiet life and a loud head, and the vague notion that someday school and I might again try a meaningful relationship somewhere down the line.

Essentially though, and here's where the panic sets in, I've done jack shit with my life so far. Not graduating college or even going to big girl school—any school when it comes down to it. Never had a serious relationship with anything other than my laptop, and since gay marriage isn't legal I seriously doubt me and my one true love are going to get to live in electronic bliss. Don't live on my own, don't have a job that I'm comfortable admitting I have. I make less than a grand a month, and most of my free time is spent watching Dr. Who or The X Files.

Don't get me wrong, parts of my life I absolutely love. But there's a part of me, the ambitious, elitist bitch part of me, that holds me and my "accomplishments" thus far in utter contempt, and dreads turning twenty-two when it knows that I've checked nothing off my life's To Do list.

We can call this a self-pitying rant, if you like. But I know I'm not alone in feeling like this, if all the other jobless not-quite twenty-two year olds out there are any indication, and instead of feeling self-deprecating, I feel justified. I feel right.

Twenty-two and stuck in limbo.

Now that I think of it, I hate it when I'm right.

The Woman In Red

The emergency room at St. Joseph's Memorial Hospital is never quiet. People in pain are not usually quiet creatures, and with either death or more agony imminent they see no reason to silence themselves. But today is a softer day than usual—the din is gentler, the crying dampened, the groaning muffled by a considerate hand. Only six people currently sit, waiting to be taken care of at one o'clock in the afternoon, a strange time to have gotten injured it's true, but it can't be helped.

One woman dressed entirely in red sits cross-legged on the floor, apparently meditating, though it's possible that she is in fact unconscious. Her eyelids are darkly shadowed, her lips painted a deep crimson, and it's difficult to tell whether her emergency is internal or external—for with the red dress nearly the color of blood it is impossible to discern the nature of her problem.

The couple that sits in the corner is not a particularly mysterious case. Though they appear to be locked in a passionate embrace, there are the sounds of incoherent bickering emerging from their otherwise occupied lips. If one were to check the paper which was unceremoniously filled out and shoved back into the nurse's hands, it would be discovered that a tongue ring and braces were involved.

"What about that one?" Whispers are heard from the other corner of the room, where the emergency room's last three occupants sit.

"No. No fucking way. She's hot, but she's not horny."

They are, unsurprisingly, young men.

"How would you know?"

"How would I know what?"

"That she's not horny."

"Because she hasn't even looked over here."

"Yeah she did. You were just too fucking busy checking out the chick in red."

"Are you shitting me? She looks like she's dead. For fuck's sake, man, give me some credit. I don't wanna bang a dead chick."

The third man, who until now has been silent, lifts his head. "Bryan, Michael."

They turn in his direction, as if surprised to find him still sitting next to them.

"Yeah, Tyler?"

Tyler clutches his head and closes his eyes. "Would you two shut the fuck up?"

Michael frowns. "Lighten up, buddy. We're just checking the nurses out."

"And the chick in red on the floor over there," Bryan adds with a wink.

"That was you checking out the dead one, man." Michael turns his attention to Tyler once more and smiles a rather patronizing smile. "Tyler, you've got to loosen up. Life isn't gonna come to you if you act like you have a fucking pole up your ass. Relax. Enjoy life. Be more like me."

Tyler lets his head sink into his hands, and his shoulders shake as he gives into a fit of laughter that rises quickly to hysterical giggles. The sound is far too loud in the quiet of the emergency room; it bounces against the walls in its attempt to escape, but finds no way out and instead comes back, echoing from every corner. 

"Be more like you?" he manages when he once more finds the breath to speak. "Relax? Enjoy life? That's what I was doing when I fucking fell out of a moving car! You didn't even have the fucking sense to call an ambulance you were so fucked up after the party! Instead you drove me here, to this fucking emergency room, and you're still fucked up! Being more like you got me a concussion and a leg that hurts every fucking time I move! Fuck, I hate you guys," he finishes softly, leaning back into the chair and closing his eyes, as if the effort of yelling has drained the remaining life out of him.

Several minutes pass and none of them speaks. The young woman is still sitting on the floor, and it's possible that the lighting is to blame, but she appears paler, and her dress seems a deeper shade of red. 

A nurse comes through a set of doors at one end of the room and glances at her chart. She is pretty, with auburn hair and a voluptuous figure that is ill-concealed even by the shapeless scrubs. "Morgan Ellis and David Chatham," she calls in a gentle, self-assured tone. The lip-locked couple rise and gingerly make their way over to her, holding onto each other and for the moment not arguing about whose fault it was that they ended up this way.

The nurse leaves, and there is once more silence in the room. 

Bryan looks at the floor and then over at the woman in red, scanning her face and figure without expression. He frowns and nudges Michael.

"Do you think he's okay?" he asks softly.

"Who?"

"Tyler, you idiot."

"Oh, yeah, he'll be fine."

The frown has not left Bryan's face, and he glances at Tyler, who hasn't moved since he sank against the wall. "He doesn't look so good. He's starting to look like the chick in red, all pale and shit."

"He was pale to begin with. We live in Washington, not fucking Hawaii."

"It just seems like maybe we should have called the ambulance instead of driving him here, like maybe it was a real emergency."

Michael shakes his head. "He'll be fine. He's Tyler. Nothing's gonna kill him."

Bryan is silent, still watching Tyler, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, watching the furrowed brow and the expression of determination warring with pain. "If he dies, I'm gonna fucking kill myself," he says quietly.

Michael turns on him incredulously. "Are you fucking crazy? Why the fuck would you kill yourself?"

Bryan shrugs. "Couldn't live with it. Knowing we killed him."

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. We did not fucking kill him, all right? He's not dead, for one thing."

"But if he dies," Bryan presses, and his eyes stray once more to the woman in red, "it'll be our fault."

"What, are you worried about not being let into heaven?" Michael asks sarcastically.

"A little."

There is silence for a moment and then Michael says, seriously for once, "Me, too."

Tyler opens his eyes and smiles. "Would you two shut the fuck up? I'm not dying. I'm just hurt, is all. Don't go planning my funeral already."  

The two uninjured men smile briefly, but there is still worry behind their eyes, even as they give a nurse a leisurely once-over and a lewd smile. Bryan glances once more at the woman in red, as if he can perhaps tell what is wrong with her if he just looks hard enough.

Her eyes are open now. Those that have been shut for so long that she appeared dead now open. They are a soft blue color, like the very edge of the sky that rests just above the horizon. She stands abruptly, fluidly, with a grace belying her sickly pallor. Her eyes light on Bryan, and she smiles slightly. 

Bryan nudges Michael hard in the side.

"She smiled at me," he whispers. "The hot one smiled at me."

"What hot one?"

"The one in red. She fucking smiled at me."

"The one in red? You mean the one that fucking looked like she was dead?"

"Yeah. She's not dead."

Michael stares at him for a moment, shakes his head. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean what the fuck is wrong with me?"

"I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Why are you always such a dick?"

Michael appears to consider this for a moment. "I don't know."

"Fuck you." Bryan says without heat. "I'm gonna go talk to her."

"Go for it. Talk to the dead chick. Hit on the dead chick. Bang the dead chick. See if I care."

Bryan smiles at the woman in red. "She's not dead, you fucking idiot. She's standing and smiling." Smiling at him from her seat across the room. "You can't be dead and do that."

"What the fuck do you know?"

The auburn-haired nurse's cool voice interrupts them. "Tyler Northam, please."

Tyler slowly rises to his feet, holding one hand to his head and favoring his injured leg. He approaches the nurse, gives her a weak smile, and turns back to the others.

"See you later, guys."

Bryan nods. "We'll be here when you get out."

Michael doesn't look at either of them. "Yeah, we'll be here. Promise."

A grin stretches across Tyler's face, and he appears healthier for a moment. "Thanks. Well, later, then." He leaves the room limping, with the nurse supporting him as they walk through the swinging doors.

Michael's gaze remains on the door. He leans over to Bryan. "What about that one? She was hot."

Bryan tears his eyes from the woman in red, who is holding his attention with very little effort, and stares at his friend. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

The Rules

The Rules:

Finish high school with good grades. Go to a good college. Get a (useful) degree. Find a good job. Lose your virginity to someone special. Chin up, chest out, smile pretty, work hard, don't smoke, don't drink, don't do drugs—and for God's sake, have a plan.

Obstinance has no place in a life plan, I've found, at least not in an easy life plan. Mine was linear at one point. I had what I needed to ride the middle class train to moderate success and with any luck the requisite midlife crisis (mine would have been a Porsche and a cabana boy). Instead, the plan now looks like a bunch of post-its tacked up onto a bulletin board by a blind, drunken psychopath.

And I can trace it all back to being a stubborn, elitist bitch.

The Plan vs. The Rules:

*Finished high school with good grades

*Went to a good college... for a year—promptly flunked out

*Degree: elusive, but then one has to finish a goddamn class once in awhile to get one of those

*Found a crap job that pays like crap, and sometimes I worry my brain will melt and dribble out my nose from ill-use

*Virginity lost... left blank to protect the innocent

*Chin up

*Chest out

*Smile pretty (and also disdainfully, mockingly, falsely, maniacally)

*Work hard, if working hard at a a job an untrained monkey could do is considered working hard. I really don't know, you'd have to ask the monkey

*(don't) Smoke

*(don't) Drink

*No drugs at least. Except amounts of coffee that would warrant a personal visit from the surgeon general if he knew

*Plan—sort of

The Plan As I Know It:

Don't give up, misery only lasts so long. Get a job I can stand while trying to find the motivation to get a degree and the tolerance to take classes with my peers (a generous term). Find a place to live not my parents' house—not that I don't love them, but if we had a basement I'd be some disgusting, artist cliché.

My other plan, the plan that isn't really practical, feasible, or anything else that resembles doable, is this: Live in a penthouse with a terrace and a bathtub I can practically swim in. Chain smoke on my balcony (terrace). Be consistently well-stocked in good wine and good food and good shoes—see nauseatingly expensive. Edit novels with a pretty red pen.

Write novels with a pretty blue pen.

Write my future out in pencil.

Live my life.

I Would Give You A Concrete Bouquet

If I could, I would give you the impossible. Everything in the world. Everything that exists and everything that doesn't. Everything my head can come up with.

I would give you a concrete bouquet.

I would give you a licorice house, that you could eat from the inside out.

I would give you a glass plane so you could see the entire world.

I would give you a time machine, so you could travel back to whenever you wanted. So you could stop this illness before it started. So we could still be happy.

But I can't give you the impossible. That must be why I'm standing here, watching your chest rise and fall. Slow and steady. Even and true. How much longer will it rise and fall like that?

Your eyes open, your smile is soft and full of affection that I find I can't express right now. It hurts. That expression, that affection, it hurts. In that space between my lungs and my heart, in the bottom of my stomach, in the web of skin between my forefinger and thumb. I'm not really sure why that part hurts, but it does. It aches, along with the rest of me. It's too much.

I lean closer to you. "Hey."

You draw in a long breath and close your eyes briefly. I'm not sure if you're saving the memory of my voice or just reveling in human contact after all the doctors and nurses, but I mourn the brief loss of your eyes. "Hi."

I carefully sit in the chair next to the bed, delicately, like it might break. "How are you feeling?" It's a lame question, I know, but I can't help but ask. You don't look like I remember you. Your skin is almost a grey color, like parchment that's been too long in the sun. Transparent. 

Your eyes are too wide, like it's effort to keep them open. Your lips are pale, they blend in. Not pink. Not like they should be. And they're too closed, tightly pressed together, like you're trying to keep in the pain.

"I feel like I'm stuck in bed and dying." Your voice is soft, but it has lost none of its sarcastic edge. "But other than that, feeling fine."

When I finally manage to smile at the joke, it feels like my face will split in two. It's too hard to smile, even though I should, even though you need me to smile. It's what's keeping you sane, I know, the fact that we can still make light of death. If I stop, if I cry, if I show you that the idea of you leaving me fills me with a terror I can't even describe, then you will fall apart. All that carefully preserved calm, all that beautiful humor and bravery, gone. I won't do that to you.

"Does it—" I start, but stop. I won't ask you that. It's not fair to remind you.

"Hurt?" you finish for me. "Does it hurt?"

I nod.

Your eyes are suddenly distant, though they are still on me. "Yes, it hurts." You summon up another smile, and I can tell that even that effort will soon be too much. "But most of the time I'm on enough painkillers to tranquilize an elephant, so it's not that bad."

I nod again. I don't know what I can say to that, or what I'm supposed to say.

You speak again. This is the most I've heard you talk in days. "I don't want to go."

Your expression is so calm, the sentiment so simple, and I can see a hint of the fear that I so dreaded seeing.

"I don't want you to go." It's perhaps the most honest thing I've said in my entire life.

"You know that I love you, right?"

That's a stupid question. Of course I know that you love me, but for some reason, now, that simple statement is infinitely more beautiful to me than it would have been before. Before today, before this second, before this illness.

I find myself nodding. "Of course I do. I love you, too."

I haven't touched you yet. Not since the last time I was here. It seems strange, that I should only just realize that, but there it is. I think that I'm afraid of the possibility that if I touch you now you won't be real. You'll just melt into the bed, or my fingers will pass right through you, or you'll dissipate into the air like water vapor.

I've never been accused of being rational.

"I thought so," you reply. "But sometimes I like to be sure." You look away from me. "Right now I'd like to be sure."

"It won't ever change, you know. It's a sure thing."

You shake your head. "No, it's not. You know there are only two sure things in this world."

I almost smile at that. "Death and taxes."

The sound of your breathing fills the room. I quiet my own to hear yours better.

We say nothing for several minutes, just sit. I still haven't touched you.

I feel your eyes on me again, and suddenly I can't stand to be in this room any longer. I can't be here, stewing in the knowledge that I can't keep you.

"I'd better let you get some sleep." I say quietly.

"Before you go," you blurt out, as I turn to leave. "I'd like it if you kissed me. Just once. So I know what it's like."

I don't know why you asked that. We're friends, strictly, we don't kiss, we're not supposed to. But I don't think it matters right now, and I lean down anyway and press my lips softly to yours. It's brief, hardly more than a second, but you're smiling as I pull back.

I'm at the door when I turn around again. I can't help it. I have to tell you. "You know, if I could, I would give you the impossible."

You laugh, and I smile at the sound. Then, you say, "I know."