I traced my finger and thumb over the St. Christopher at my neck. And you can say what you like, you can say, “Oh, it isn’t the death sentence it used to be,” and you can take the best supplements and go to the gym, orange-flavoured vitamins sweating out of every pore. Whispering your sickness in strides on an elliptical as an underscore to every generic dance song on your headphones. But at first it still feels like you’re just waiting to hang, and in my nightmares the executioner is in drag, smirking: ‘Oh, you really did it this time, honey!’
Perhaps he’s played by Whoopi Goldberg.
Scene narrated by Hillary Clinton.
Soundtrack by Elton John.
And you reason with yourself that feeling sorry won’t help and that doing something is the only way to survive. And as I was thinking all this bullshit in my own little bubble, reaching up to put strange American coins in the vending machine in the hallway outside my hotel room, a hand reached out at the same time and touched mine, going for the slot. It’s the first time I’ve touched hands with anyone in weeks and suddenly I feel good, a part of something.
Us.
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