I wake up in the morning, and I take a pill. I wretch. I don't know why. It's so little. It takes ten minutes and my stomach settles. By that time it hurts. Everything. My stomach, my hips, through my chest, and stabbing back into my shoulders when I breathe. And when I cough, there's colors. But it's better than not taking it. I think. It's been a long time. But I know what happens when I stop now. Funny how that's different, isn't it? That path of what-if-I-never versus here-I-am-now-that-I-have. Oh. Oh, God... It won't stay down.......... Ow.
I managed to get dressed and be normal for awhile. Now I'm in a cafe. Or on the terrace or patio, or what the crap ever they call it. My neck is sore. The muscles feel cold under my skin each time I turn my head. And I turn my head a lot, to look at people and to look for someone. My sister is suppose to meet me for lunch. She loves this place. It's the umbrellas, I think. They're so happy, I don't know where they got these things, maybe the owner's wife made them, she looks crafty. I saw her a couple times. She smiles a lot for an old lady. They're yellow, the umbrellas. The come out of the table with gusto. Bright, open expanses of fluttery yellow, full of breeze and sunshine, little blue paisleys, and specks of bird shit you can't avoid in places like this where people drop crumbs onto the stamped concrete that you can always smell somehow. Like you're sipping your tea or suckin down some dickaccino or another and there's that wafting earthy, ashen warmth in the cool air all of asudden. Or at night when they hose the place down and all that left over warmth rises up, like breathing thick blue paint. And I fuckin hate the waiters here. There she is now! Ey!
We have lunch. She sits so straight. Her touch is so light. I marvel at the way she holds a teacup. I wonder if chinaware can be happy? Look at how thin it is, how delicate. I bet it's delighted to hold her tea for her. She's two years older than me. She likes to hold that over my head, I think, sometimes, I don't know why, but I just smile and let her have her fun. She says the two extra years gives her perspective. I kinda want to laugh at that, on the one hand y'know, given what I go through everyday. I'd say I have a perspective all my own. But I like hers. She has the perspective on gentleness for teacups, and sundresses and warm breezes, and patio cafes where people smile a lot and like having you around. So I don't say anything.
She has to go back to work so I pay the tab and accept her hug. She's not as ginger as all that when she hugs me. In fact, I'm convince I really truly had to swallow my own lungs back down a couple times after our lunch.
I don't work anymore. I used to. Now I just take pills and eat lunch and go back to lay down and sort of die a little. I even had a desk. It was a really high desk. I know, because I fell off of it once. I don't know how I got up there, but I remember clutching the edge of it, my nails digging into the wood cause it was like a thousand feet down. There was another body down there already, I could see him, look, look how crooked and cold his face is and the awkward angle of his hips. I'm gonna fall, crap, and I'll be there right next to him with the blood pooling around me, and teeth, cause I'll probably smash my face right into the concrete when I hit. And they found me like that, in the morning, shaking from exertion and staring down at some GI Joe guy on the carpet of my office. It wasn't a corner office, just a regular one on the south side of the building. I got to watch the sun all the way across the sky some times of the year. It would turn the whole place colors. I've seen every shade of yellow.