Ten | newtmas

thirty four

I let go first. I don't make a big deal of it, but I tell him I'm hungry—a lie, but I need an excuse—and tired so he starts driving. Letting go is written off as simply for safety purposes, considering he can barely drive with two hands.

    We wind up getting a buffet of fast food, which we bring back to the hotel. Getting there is nerve wracking, but luckily there are no police cars waiting for us. Now, we're sitting side by side on the bed with the TV and a spread of food in front of us.

    "Do you like this show?" Thomas asks. He's holding the remote and flipping through channels, and I hardly recognize anything on.

    "I'm not sure, I never watched a lot of TV," I say. It's odd, I keep catching myself referring to my life before TIMI in the past tense as if it's gone.

    "Oh, you were one of those then?" Thomas says.

    "No, it was just got difficult. The channel numbers would bother me when I saw them, and so would the volume. Had to be even numbers or numbers that ended with five," I say.

    "Alright, then we'll put the volume on twenty and look for something good on an even channel," Thomas says with a smile. A voice in the back of my head tells me that his patience is fleeting. I try not to listen.

    We settle on an old sitcom that Thomas swears is good, and get to eating. There's about eight burgers, four things of large fries, huge things of chicken nuggets, and a few other assorted food items. He digs into one of the burgers, and I finally ask one of the questions that's been bothering me.

    "Where did you get all this money?" I ask. Every time it comes to paying, Thomas pulls out cash, and it never seems to end. I haven't really wanted to know the answer, but if I'm involved in some sort of bank robbery, I'd like to be aware.

    Thomas swallows what he was chewing, then shrugs. "Child support, it's mine," he says, looking ahead at the TV.

    "Oh," I say. Thomas nods, and I drop it, picking up one of the containers of fries. He's shaking his foot, and I try desperately not to count out tens. It's not even me.

    After a few minutes of watching the show, Thomas mutes the TV and turns so his body is facing me.

    "So, you never watched a lot of TV, you liked to read, you don't like sports... That's all I really know about you," Thomas says. He's sitting with his legs crossed, and now he puts his elbows on his knees and rests his face in his hands.

    I frown and turn to face him, causing our knees to press into each other's. It's not exactly a big bed—especially with my cast. "You know tons about me. More than anyone else," I say. As scary as it is, it's definitely the truth.

    "Yeah, but that's different. Tell me about yourself. Not your OCD, you," Thomas says.

    "Isn't that all I am at this point?" It's my immediate response, but I know how it must sound to Thomas.

    "No, and you know that it's not. C'mon, tell me things. What's your favorite color?" Thomas asks.

    "Blue, I guess," I say after a moment.

    "See? Not everything is OCD related," Thomas says. "Keep going. Favorite food?"

    I actually do have a set answer for that one. "Back when we lived in England we'd have Shepherd's pie every Sunday. It was the first thing my mother learned how to make for my dad. But once we moved here, we kept up the tradition for a while til it faded off. Now she makes it for special occasions or if one of us has a bad day." I talk about my family out of habit, but the thought makes me sick now. Will I have that anymore? Is that gone forever?