Page 12 of The Love of My Afterlife
Mr. Yoon chuckles silently, his breath coming out in little gasps, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening.
“You may laugh, but I am perturbed, Mr. Yoon,” I say, picking up our empty plates and taking them over to the dishwasher. “Perturbed. What if I’m going mad?”
Mr. Yoon grabs a pencil and scratches something out at the top of his puzzle page.
DELPHIE, YOU CANNOT GO MAD IF YOU ARE ALREADY MAD.
“Oi!” I scold. “Although you’re probably right. And on that note, off I go to the pharmacy, where I will spend my whole day hearing mournful tales of dry skin and gunky eyes and itchybits. You have a good day, hey? I’ll pop in later, probably. Wipe those countertops down if you haven’t managed it.”
Mr. Yoon gives me a thumbs-up before picking up his box of cigarettes and lighting a fresh one with shaky hands. I once mentioned to him that maybe he should cut down, to which he gave me a scowl so forceful I ended up buying him a new ashtray to apologise for interfering.
As I leave his flat and head back to my own, my phone makes a weird noise. It’s the opening notes of the song “Jump Around” by House of Pain, playing over and over again. What the hell? I dig my phone out of my pocket. There’s a text. Wait, I don’t have sound notifications on for texts.
I open the message and my heart jolts.
Yo Delphie, this is Merritt. From Evermore. I’m getting the impression that you think what happened between us yesterday was a dream…Because why are you farting around when you only have ten days to find Jonah? Actually nine days now because last night was technically day one and today is day two…
PS This text will vanish as soon as you’ve finished reading it.
I gawk at the message, and then right before my human eyes it shimmers and pops into nothing, just like Jonah did in my dream.
Which…wasn’ta dream?
I click back into my text folder. Yep. The text has gone.
I look up and down the hall corridor. Is this a prank? No, Idon’t know enough people for one of them to be a clandestine prankster. Maybe I really am unwell…Maybe I should have let Cooper call a doctor last night.
The sound of “Jump Around” blasts out again.
“Is this a dream?” I whisper, lightly slapping light my face in a bid to wake myself up.
Jeez. Can we get this bit over with, Delphie? This isn’t a dream. It’s real. It’s happening. We agreed on ten days. You have until 6pm on the tenth day to find Jonah and get him to kiss you. Or I will keep you forever…Muhahahah.
The message pops and disappears. I feel my knees weaken like I’m some flake in a period drama. I grab the handle of my door as I slide down to the carpeted floor.
Me again. Seriously, though. Can you let me know that you understand? I can’t keep texting all day. Eric just walked into my office and said “Hmm you look super busy.” What a dick. I just need you to say it out loud. To acknowledge this is real. Say: “I know this is real!”
I gasp as the message floats away once more. “Uh…this is real?” My voice comes out in a whisper. I clear my throat and say it louder. “This is real.”
It is real! Okay, girly. I’m out for now but we’ll speak soon. Good luck, good luck! I’m so excited to see how this goes! Woohoo!
In the midst of the fear and the disbelief and the general pervading worry that I am going crazy, I feel something unexpected. A warm curl of excitement. A glimmer of hope deep in the pit of my belly.
If this is real, then that means Jonah is real.
And he’s somewhere in London.
7
The doorbell of Meyer’s Pharmacy dings out as I blast the door open. I’m immediately hit with the comforting smell of soap and tinctures that lingers here. Jan, who works the till, jumps in shock, the phone she’s been watching dropping onto the glass countertop with a clank. She throws her arms upwards like I’m a burglar and she’s planning to take me down. When she realises it’s only me, her shoulders soften and she returns to one of the pro-shot musicals she’s always watching in between customers.
Jan’s daughter, Leanne, pops out from behind the partition, her perfectly microbladed eyebrows drawn into a V, lip gloss shining beneath the artificial lighting. She’s the pharmacist here and Jan’s and my boss. She doesn’t resemble any pharmacist I’ve ever met before. She looks like an Instagram influencer—skin poreless, hair balayaged and wavy, eyelashes artificially abundant. And then there are her clothes—she has a side passion for fashion, which means that she’s forever coming into work in designs of her own creation, usually severe, fashiony-colouredfields of neon fabric with huge sleeves that sometimes dangle into her salad at lunchtime.
“What’s with the slamming?” Leanne hisses, her eyes dipping down to the clear Perspex wristwatch she always wears. “And you’re late.”
When I first started working here three years ago, Leanne kept trying to get me to go out for after-work drinks with her. I kept putting her off on account of two things:
