"Sterile. Paper gowns. Paper masks. Plastic gloves. Plastic goggles. So much between us in order to say goodbye. "Don't touch," they said. "It's not safe," they said. I put a plastic glove on his bare hand - chalky latex to skin. He stirred and cried. I've never been good at goodbyes."
"A sunset without much color. The even fleshiness of the sky fuzzes the air as we watch the sun lower on the other side of the city. There is enough atmosphere, enough dispersion of blue light, the remaining red searing without burning because, I've heard, the sun is already on the far side of the earth and we are here, only watching the refracted light. So radiant a trail left for those of us behind.
Sipping our beers from the rooftop deck, playing Connect Four at a metal table in matching chairs, we haven't spoken aside from grunts and little cries of frustration. I know the bartender, though it looks like you two would know each other better. I get up and even he's silent, at least to me, as he's empathically chatting with another bartender, and cracks a couple more beers along with quick shots for him and me. At our table, there's the clatter of red and yellow disks and you're dividing them again.
We've changed colors and you start. I look up from the screen between us and you're mostly recovered, the barest flush in your eyes. These days have been long, the clean corridors and cleaning at home. Even our food has been plain and soft. At times, I don't know if you're so deep in strategy that I should be worried more about my loss or if I've lost you here for a moment. Yet, I'm not always sure for myself."
"The time when I used to wake up in the morning excited and I would get dressed for you. My mind would trail off for hours during those days fantasizing about gently kissing your pillowy lips, with my eyes closed standing on my tippy toes. Running into each other stimulated every nerve and cell in my body like nuclear fission. The days when you were absent felt like a complete waste of existence. I looked so cute and wanted you to see me in my outfit. I always secretly wished we would serendipitously cross paths in the side stairwell. What would happen? And there goes my mind wandering off again..."
"When I was maybe 10 or 11, I made up a name for the feeling of general blah-ness that would sometimes wash over me: the Big Blob of Nothing.
I got it from a TV show. The Secret Life of Alex Mack. Alex could morph into a liquified blob of silver goo when she didn’t want to be seen (the result of a radioactive accident, of course). She'd melt in the middle of high school hallways—sliding over ramps and railings, slipping behind locked doors and metal lockers. She moved through life unnoticed. She all but disappeared.
Some days I would wake up and tell my mom, “I feel like A Big Blob of Nothing today.”
Some days she would say, “Me too.”"