Page 29 of The Last Kiss

Pouff. I groan as Barney assumes position. “Feline, I’m s- struggling to b- breathe here.”

He answers with a purr and limply, I lift my wrist and scratch his ears.

Headbutt.

My eyes sting and I swipe at them with the back of my hand and wrist. An episode. When my chest is easier, I roll over, knocking Barney onto the floor and grabbing at my diary on the table. I mean, am I even supposed to be keeping these records now? Dr Francis didn’t actually say. Kind of seems pointless, but nonetheless I dutifully flip to the first week of the year and add in: breathless, racing, dizzy.

Flipping it closed, I study the new diary. A present from Liv at Christmas, I’m guessing she didn’t know it would be my last.

I really need to research more. I’m being an idiot by pretending this isn’t going to happen.

Ignorance though… it really is bliss.

So they say.

Flipping the navy cover with its watercolour peacock back open, I scan through the first couple of pages.

What was she thinking? Affirmations for success… yearly focus target…

Yes: I don’t want to die, and: Live beyond twelve months.

Chuckling, I write my answers on the dotted lines.

Health goals: Reach thirty.

Career aspirations: Not to get made redundant before I die (maybe hand notice in – not sure – need to research).

Happy with my responses, I flick through the rest. December. November. October. Will I even see those months? Should I rip them out now?

I should have asked Dr Francis more questions on Friday. Maybe I could ring him. He did say he’d be in contact this week. I could call and say, ‘Hey, it’s only Monday, and I’ve already had a turn’.

Barney’s high-pitched pip of air from his butt pulls my attention. “You repulse me,” I tell him, but he just licks the end of his tail, face turned away from me. He’s had all he needs today. Well, until six-thirty this evening when we begin it all over again.

Flipping through the pages again, I settle back on the self-help twaddle at the start.

This Year’s Goals

Tapping my teeth with my biro, I consider the prospect. Liv would be horrified if she knew all this stuff was in this diary after the news we’d just got.

We.

Funny her and I were always my we, yet I probably haven’t been hers for a long time. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. The way I want it to be. Right now, she’s no longer getting ready for work as a hyper efficient personal assistant. She’s busy changing nappies and wrestling the terrorist to pre-school. Doing all the things that she chose in her life, no matter how much Dickweed Darren let her down.

I grind my teeth and consider that prison sentence again. Would they put a dying woman in prison? I’m willing to take the gamble that they wouldn’t. That man no longer deserves a penis. Maybe if he was a eunuch, he’d have more time to contemplate what a total asshat he is.

Now… Mr Mysterious Frenchman. He should definitely keep his penis. He knew exactly what to do with that.

I need to stop thinking about it. It’s not a one-night stand if you obsess about it after.

On a whim I write on the top line of the Yearly Goals section: Have sex with a Frenchman. Tapping away at my teeth I consider this and then write: Have a one-night stand, beneath it.

Then I put a line through both.

Oooh. The love bite. That goes on the list too followed by another concise line cutting through the words.

Love bite.

There you go. I’ve only been dying one day, and I’ve ticked three things off.