is not. I feel sick today. It is the night before a blister forms. “What if the blister forms and bursts in my sleep?” I think. The sticky sop would spread over my body, running off, ruining his bed sheets. I can feel the yellow gew as it runs down my neck. It crawls onto my chest- sinks, anchors. Spreads to my heart. Blisters begin to boil there, heating the heart. The blisters begin to burst; my heart is going to explode. It does, and I’m dead. I’ve died of a cold sore. I won’t be able to feel love anymore. I’m just a cold, sore, corpse. He lifts his blanket up off of my head and less stale air pours over. He leans down to give me a kiss on my lips. “Don’t—” I say. “I’ve got a dreadful virus.”
As we cannot kiss, we take refuge in a box of wine. We take
turns drinking from the chalice. He tells me about his world, and I tell him about my far away farm. I haven’t been back since I’ve left. I repeat the same stories often. He mostly lets me tell them over and over—I wish he didn’t. I notice the shape of his nose for the first time. It’s me or it’s the nose—one of us is crooked. He’s funny. I’m laughing. I have my head over a bucket. Everything is coming out of me tonight. He asks me if I’ve ever half doubted him, and I start to cry. He rubs my back and kisses around my virus. He puts a blanket over us. I get close to the skin on his chest and inhale the smell of my friend. Go bhfóire Dia orm, I am dependent.
We mean to both fall asleep on the single bed, but only he suc-
ceeds. I think about how in the morning I need to tell him to wash his pillow case. I think about how I haven’t moved much at all since I’ve been in this room. I think of the place where I was told my only job was to “just let be.” I have a headache. I lift the chalice to my mouth,
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