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Dangerous Compassions

garlic bread

Been craving chicken, delicious fake chicken.  Told Ming I want three huge servings of spicy fake fried chicken.

And garlic bread, so buttery with little green flakes of dried oregano and a crispy edge of toastedness, getting butter on my fingers when I pick it up, five pieces.

Oh wouldn’t it feel good to eat food again.  When I can’t eat food, I enjoy the broth and juice.  When the ultrasound tech told me “don’t breathe” I tried to be good for him, a wonderful not-breathing person.

I was proud of myself I could take the iv stand and wheel it myself to the bathroom in the night.  Someone had left a yellow plastic caution sign by the door.  “There’s a yellow thing,” I said.

“Men at work in the bathroom,” Ming said.

“Don’t fuck with me,” I said with a flash of confusion, hurting his smile.

They moved me to a new room last night, so spacious and quiet I feel like a spoiled hotel guest.  The roses R brought are with the yellow flowers N brought which surprised me with the friend hospital visitor performance done perfectly, N’s hesitation to enter the room and meet Mom.  We sat there comforting each other.

I told him how a machine beeps, and in another room a machine beeps like a bird saying hi to a bird in another room.

Ming’s gone to see if the cafeteria’s open, and one day I’ll eat food again too.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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