I can hardly see to write. My friend Lisa is gone. Her boyfriend called to tell me she had darkened and died while he slept. He was hysterical, had no idea she was so ill. I wish he’d called me.
Sure, it’s his fault. I should have known, must have known. It’s obvious that she didn’t want me to visit because she thought she was dying, knew I wouldn’t keep my mask on if I saw her like that. I stayed home, typing for myself and a bunch of strangers.
THE PRIVATE CHAMBER (DREAM OF THE GNOME, Frank Zirbel)
Lisa’s the best woman I’ve ever been with. Anyone she dated would agree. She was beautiful, smart, fun, loving, and kind. Not that Lisa was a Girl Scout—she could be earthy and hot, too, a garden of delights with a macabre sense of humor.
I didn’t know what to say to her boyfriend. I resorted to technical support, tried to be useful, probed to see if he felt ill. He merely feels like death, doesn’t sense any brewing inside. Even as she lies cold in their bedroom.
I didn’t know what to tell him to do with her corpse. Call the city, sure….
Her corpse. How can I type that? The word is a hallucination, an abomination.
He sits near her as I cry for both of them. I’ve broken a bunch of things—cds, dvds, dishes, a book about wine she gave me years ago. I can’t put it back together. The binding split open. I liked the book. I loved her, always would have.
Sneeky watched without judgment or fear while I freaked out and cursed myself. When I began to relax, he padded over to forgive me with a lingering head rub to my calf. That broke me down all over again. He was sad when Lisa and I broke up.