AFTERSHOCK (168 words)
Two, I tell him. Heās asked how many pillows I sleep on.
Is that good or bad, I ask, but heās too busy writing notes in my file to answer, and Iām wondering if Iāll be pounding my fist on the inside of a coffin soon.
He says we should do, as if heās going to join me, a troponin blood test and a lung function test. He looks too young to be a doctor. Boyish. And his teeth are white and symmetrical. Pristine. My teeth never looked like that. Ever.
Age disrupts oneās body. Turns it spongy. Turns your blue veins into bruises as if you’ve been wrestling moose. No, I say, thatās a razor nick – canāt see without my glasses, and I donāt wear glasses in the shower, do you?
He doesn’t answer.
I know this for sure, I donāt recognise myself in the mirror anymore, and itās not a memory thing – it’s a time thing, how everything can change in a flash.
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