2. accusation
you must be on drugs.
he shrugs off her words because they mean absolutely nothing to him. there goes the wish again, the sole desire to erase himself from existence for a period of time so as to reassert the worthiness of himself in the existential sense. he has never wanted to be breathing less than he does right now.
he has never hated anyone more than he hates her, something he comes to realize every time he so much as glances over her. the way she quakes in his presence, the way her double chin jiggles under the incessant movement of her mouth despite having nothing of value to say. her finger jabs towards him, aimed straight at his heart; he is genuinely afraid for a moment that she is going to pop the muscle from between his ribs, something that doesn’t seem unattainable given how sharp her claws have become in the recent weeks. her hair - blond, same as him, but many shades brighter and a source of envy for many of her friends; he has often fantasized about letting this secret of hers out to them - frames her face in a way that only makes it appear to be rounder than it actually is. she hasn’t washed in a few days, and she’s obviously been lying about not drinking with her customers because she reeks of gin, the acridity of which stings at his nasal passages and makes him all the more angry for being here to have the argument. when she moves it’s with her entire body, which shakes and shivers without reason, without question.
the only thing that keeps her from getting up, crossing the room and strangling him with her pudgy hands is the wheelchair, with all its safety straps.
if only he were slightly smarter, he would figure out a way to deconstruct her.
i’m not on drugs.
if his hands worked in such a manner he would pull her apart with them, the way she does with a big juicy piece of fried chicken when the realization that her life has passed her by hits one more time. molecule by molecule, dot by tiny dot he debunks her excessively passionate phrasing of the state of his sobriety.
if you’re not on drugs, you wouldn’t be doing something stupid like - she gives pause for her slowly-draining tub of rocky road, calculating every sin he’s committed in the past twenty-two years - like, you know…
he has never wanted to converse with her less.
i’m not on drugs. i don’t live with you, either, so even if i were it wouldn’t matter to you. he looks away, hiding the grin that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth. she has a dribble of molten marshmallow running from her lips, and it reminds him strangely of his own conception, which he had not been around to witness.
it does matter to me, she insists, all but choking on a chocolate chunk. the coughing is a source of hope for him, the happiest he’s been since his birth if he puts his mind to it. if you’re coming over here stoned or something you’ll fuck up my oxygen treatments. he does not say what comes to mind, which is that he has been hoping since he moved out that he wouldn’t have to make the effort. instead he straps the mask to her face and bids her good morning, as he has classes to attend.
she might be screaming when he locks the door behind him. he does not know, nor has he cared for years when it comes to her constant need to be shrill.
