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Summary
‘Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there someday.’
Simon stared at the Post-it note that had adorned the mirror over his dresser for almost fourteen months. The edges were curling up, the graphite Wille had used to pencil in the quote smudged from his fingerprints, a signifier of the time that had passed.
Wille had written the note the day he’d gotten his surgery date, while he’d been crying on the couch, curled up in a ball, feeling like fourteen months would never pass - that he’d never be free from the pervasive feeling of wrongness he woke up to each day. Their tongue had peeked out from between their teeth, eyes squinted in concentration, and then they’d sat back and handed it to him.
He’d traced his fingertips over the cramped, looping print again and again, and had paused, forced himself to exhale, to get up, and to keep on living. Fourteen months would pass either way, but at least, as he kept telling himself when he saw the Post-it on his mirror, he’d have had his first of the three surgeries at the end of it.
Series
- Part 3 of A Hundred Minus One Day