Page 87 of Without a Clue

“No.”

“I’ll feel terrible if you don’t go. Go on.”

“No.”

“It hurts to talk,” I say. “And I don’t want to talk. But I will to save you from hunger if I have to. Go.”

“No.”

“Go.”

“No.”

“Go go go go go—”

“Fine. I’ll go.”

I hear footsteps.

The door opening.

The lights flick off, and I hear the door shutting.

A minute goes by.

“You didn’t go,” I say.

“No.”

I can’t fight him on this.

I’m not going to win.

And frankly, as he knows, and I know, it’s too painful to do anything much besides what I’m doing right now. Lying as still as possible in a room as dark as possible with as little noise as possible until the nausea and head banging subside.

So I don’t try.

At some point, some time later, I think of a wet washcloth. And then once I’ve thought of it, I can’t think of anything besides it.

Wet washcloth.

Wet washcloth.

Wet washcloth.

At last I groan.

Move to stand up.

He stops me before I make it all the way up.

“What do you need?”

I purse my lips, trying to decide if I want to fight him on this, to be a capable and independent woman, or give in to the offer of help and show my weakness.

Weakness wins.

I slump back. “A wet washcloth. If you don’t mind.”