I sit in a coffee shop with Rachel and there’s that subtle hum in our shared dialogue that gets me readily satisfied and enlivened. There too, is the occasional lull. At the foot of the static though, we spread heavy words that matter, and somehow caress and support each other. I’m feeling aimless but don’t say this, no. She’s stressed out over housing plans and talks about a new bakery job that she might have landed. This spirals towards melancholy and several minutes later, we are chatting about strange fears. It’s all normal.
There at the height of laughter, there’s that awful admittance to the worry that she might end up getting murdered. She can imagine it all there in her head, when she’s up and alone at night. She can hear the opening of doors and the grueling aftermath of blood splattered all over kitchen tile. I don’t understand, but I nod and listen, and tell her about my odd feelings towards breast cancer. This is how I see the end of life, just like some people see themselves dying in a plane crash. In fact, every morning I look at my female fruit, and pierce each nipple like a sweet raspberry. “I’m stronger than this”, I say. “I’m stronger.”