Page 267 of Mario

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Lie.

Lie.

I send it anyway.

Then I turn the phone face down on the couch.

For five seconds, I feel almost in control.

Then it buzzes again.

I do not touch it.

I cannot.

Instead, I stand and walk toward the bathroom.

My feet stop at the doorway.

The test is still there.

Hidden, but not gone.

I step inside and move the basket.

Yup, still two lines.

I sit down on the closed toilet lid and stare at it.

“What am I going to do?” I whisper.

No one answers.

Because the only person who would have an answer is the one person I cannot ask.

I sit there until the silence starts to feel worse than the fear.

There are two lines staring back at me. I need to see a doctor, yes. But the test knows it, the two in the trash know it, and sodoes my body. I don’t think a doctor is going to tell me any different.

It’s about time I did something about it.

I can’t keep sitting here and staring at it because I am going to lose whatever small grip I have left.

And the fact is, this is not who I am.

I stand, take the test off the counter, and put it in the drawer beneath the sink.

I wash my hands.

This isn’t me. I’m not the moping type.

I’m the get-shit-done type. The time for moping and wallowing is over.

I go back to the couch, pick up my laptop, and pull it onto my lap.

My phone is still face down beside me.

I do not look.

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