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Your alarm goes off and, abruptly awoken, the first thing you notice is a slithering, sinking regret that you had set the fucking thing in the first place. Maybe if it hadn’t gone off at all you’d have a semi-decent excuse for lazing in bed all day. Then again, rattling off excuses and pleading innocence hasn’t gone very well for you. You open your eyes and it’s much lighter out than you’d expected. You wouldn’t even be able to go back to sleep, now that you know it’s morning for sure, your body telling you that you really should get a move on, the sun’s been up for a while and you’ve been completely inactive. You’re burning daylight. You could close the blinds and shove your head under the covers if you really wanted to. But you realize almost nauseatingly that you have Renaissance Drama in less than half an hour and you seriously can’t afford to miss another class. Although, you rationalize accidentally, insipidly, it’s not as if you haven’t been practically drowned in Renaissance drama for the past eighteen years. You do consider going back to sleep, for a moment, and your bed and pajamas are so comfortable and you can go back to dreaming and not thinking about your family. But your nature is equal measures anxious and stubborn, so you rise and choose an outfit. Not too much emphasis on style today, you don’t think. An embarrassing, paranoid little specter of a thought reminds you that you wouldn’t want to wear anything you particularly liked today, just in case something bad happened. That would jinx the outfit forever, and you’d never touch it again afterward. You dismiss it as bullshit, but judiciously decide that it isn’t worth wearing your favorite skirt anyway today, it’s much too tight around your waist and you don’t quite feel well this morning. More rationalizing. It’s something you’ve always been good at.
You gather up your clothes and make your way down the hall to the bathroom. You hate these long hallways, and you hate these shared bathrooms. A girl whose name you’re sure you know but can’t be bothered to remember passes by and you struggle to avoid eye contact in the least conspicuous way possible. She probably notices anyway. You take much too long in the shower, nearly falling asleep again under the stream of warm water. It runs comfortingly over your belly and you promise yourself that you’ll take a nice, long soak right after class. A reward for surviving. Before you leave the dorm, you stop and assess. You’re not sure you can make it through the next few hours without giving yourself away, your legs occasionally shiver and you feel like a glacier, great sheets of ice sloughing off your surface and leaving you bare and raw. You pop an Atavan and head out the door, shouldering your bag and taking a deep breath.
Sitting at your desk in class, you run a thumb across your copy of The Merchant of Venice. You like its marbled cover and the notes adjacent to more obscure references. Shakespeare is a favorite and you’re usually vocal. When you’re on, you can talk for hours, because you really do love theater despite yourself and despite Lily Mortar. Today, however, you are quiet. If you open your mouth to speak, you think, you won’t be able to control what might come out. If saying something suspicious or responding too heatedly won’t draw the class’ attention, then puking in the middle of a lecture probably will. You couldn’t force yourself to have breakfast, but your stomach tosses anyway. So you clamp your jaw and hunch your shoulders and muscle through your professor’s analysis of Portia and of mercy. Funny that Aunt Lily should have loved Portia so much, when she had absolutely no concept of mercy herself. You wonder if Portia would have done a better job raising her sister’s out-of-wedlock kid. You’d like to think she wouldn’t have been bitter or fashioned herself a martyr, but you suppose that even the best of attitudes would warp and distort under that kind of a burden. And how would Portia react to allegations that she and Nerissa had been lovers? Even she might have forgotten to be merciful, especially when the woman responsible for her reputation’s ruin confessed that yes, yes she really did love her all this time. You make yourself stop thinking about Portia.
It takes a few more minutes for the meds to kick in, but once they do your body slumps and your stomach settles just a little, the nervous acidity mollified for now. You watch the clock and regret getting out of bed. You are tired and you want to be somewhere warm and soft and sleep for a very, very long time. Just as you begin to contemplate the pros and cons of spending the rest of your life asleep, class is dismissed. You blink lazily for a few minutes, regaining your bearings. You think you can feel your professor’s irritated gaze fixed on you as you slowly return your books to your bag. You draw your hood up onto your head and leave the classroom, ready to return to your room and do absolutely nothing for hours at a time, ready for that shower you had promised yourself, ready for some tea, maybe, and a long, long nap. Your course is set and you feel oriented for the first time today, you’re your roommate awkwardly noses her way next to you and you can tell, you can just tell that she’s ready to bust in with a line of unwanted interrogation, and –
“Hey, Martha, you okay? You seemed sort of out of it today. Want to get a drink tonight?”
You try to answer her, you really do. Just a polite “no thank you” and a step to the side. Of course, it all gets garbled in your throat, even though there are only three words to say, syllables get caught on your vocal cords and cling to your tonsils until you can only choke out a half-angry whimpering kind of sob that sounds more like “get the fuck away from me” than “no thank you,” even if you don’t end up saying anything that’s really composed of words. Tears escape from your eyes and you try to push yourself away from her, but she places a hand on your forearm and suggests maybe coffee in the dorm instead.
You pull your hood further down your face while your roommate waits in line for coffee. You’re sitting on a couch, its bright upholstery making you feel very aware of how red your face must be, in between embarrassment and crying. As you walk back to the dorm, you try and speak as normally as possible, although there are tears running down your cheeks. If you ignore them, you hope, she will too. Once you finally get to your room, you can hardly keep yourself together. Your roommate hands you your coffee and as you fumble in your sweater pocket for money to pay her back, she insists it was nothing and that it’s on her. She should have known better. You burst into tears, you’re done, you’re fucking done with her and with yourself for being such a goddamn fucking leech and you can’t stop thinking how pitiful she must think you are.
“Um, Martha . . . ?”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” your “s”es slur into “z”s and you try to compose yourself. You ratchet your shoulders upright and force air into your lungs. Her hand is on you again, this time touching your shoulder and pressing gently.
“Martha, jeez, it’s okay,” she nearly laughs but it’s not mean-spirited, just a little surprised, “it’s fucking hard, I know.”
It is fucking hard. You nod.
“Can I give you a hug?”
“I don’t know, um, maybe, I’m not sure.”
“How’s this?” she raises her arm, wraps it up and over your shoulders. You’re just pleased that you managed to get out a somewhat coherent sentence, and you think, fuck it, why not. You lean into her and nod again, pressing your face against the side of her chest. You’re a little reluctant to get her shirt damp, your cheeks are warm and sticky, but your hesitation dissolves when you realize just how good it feels to be able to cry on someone’s shoulder. A literal shoulder to cry on. How hilariously cathartic, how very absurd that you’re getting so mushy about this. But then, it really does make sense. This kind of comfort, this close contact and uncomfortable teariness and the ultimate need to just let it go and drop everything and wallow for a while, this isn’t something you’ve ever indulged in. You used to tell Karen when something was bothering you, sure, but you’d have put a bullet through your head before showing her this kind of an ugly, pathetic display of vulnerability. You just wouldn’t be able to stand it if your misery rubbed off on her, or, worse, if you’d lost all control in a moment of collapse and slapped a kiss on her. And you were never nearly that close with Joe. You cried constantly during your recovery, but you always waited until he’d left you alone, steeling up when he was around and acting tougher than you felt, half to convince him you were going to be alright and half to avoid sharing any more with him than you wanted to share. But this girl, she doesn’t make you share, she doesn’t ask for any explanations, she doesn’t want to know that you’re alright, and you honestly feel as if your deluge of emotion isn’t doing as much damage to her well-being as you’d assumed it would do to Karen’s. So you just cry for a while, feeling like you’re in an idiotic young adult novel and apologizing over and over out of habit until finally you’re ready to stop crying and you just feel tired and empty but relieved. You sip your coffee.
“I’m going to grab some lunch,” there’s nothing different in her voice, and it’s a fucking blessing, “do you want anything while I’m out?”
“You trying to get me in your debt? Sorry, but I need every pound of flesh I’ve got.”
She scoffs lightly and you’re satisfied at the return of your more sarcastically inclined faculties, if only temporarily. You even feel a little smile break out on your face, weary and sharp, but a smile all the same.
“No thanks, I’ll pick up some food later. I think I’m going to take a nap or something.”
“Okay. See you later, Martha.”
She stands at the door and turns to get another look at you.
“You know the offer for drinks still stands. You can even pay for yourself if you really want.”
“Well, if I can use my own money, I guess I’ll have to consider it. But don’t think you’re off the hook with the flesh thing. Just because I’m sad and gay doesn’t mean I’m going to be your Antonio.”
The door closes to her laughter and you’re even more pleased at your rebound. You crack your neck, roll your shoulders, breath in, breath out, and take your pajamas to the bathroom. The warm shower water is soothing on your coiled muscles and you can feel the syrupy thickness of tears evaporating off your face. The steam rises and you close your eyes.