Suicide Buddies

The Holy Duo of Pillows & Pasta

I used to want to ask my mother what her nightmares were about. If she dreamt of murky things or fine-lined things or things that never happened or things that constantly did. If they were like mine: violent, noisy, full of people I couldn't see again and things I couldn't take back. Regretful. Honest.

Maybe I could've known if I had asked her earlier. Maybe it would've been helpful, or maybe it would have only hurt more. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

To this day, I still didn't know what killed faster: never knowing at all, or knowing too well.

And I hoped desperately that the third step would tell me. 

I had nothing else left to ask.

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"I am, like, eighty two percent sure I can cut an apple."

Haru stared. I cleared my throat.

"Sixty five percent. Or maybe sixty. I mean, it looks like a small apple. I say sixty three flat."

He shook his head. "Do you eat any fruit? At all?"

I frowned at that inquiry-disguised accusation. "Obviously," I said and pointed at the netted bag of tangerines adjacent to the cutting board. "Tangerines."

"Other than that."

"I ate a box of raisins last week."

Haru pinched the bridge of his nose. I said, "I think I ate a pear at some point in March, but it could've been a papaya."

"Those look and taste nothing alike."

I shrugged. "I don't discriminate. Papayas and pears, all fruits welcome."

"What color is a papaya?"

"Trick question. Yellow...ish."

Haru turned back to the cutting board. "I'll just do it. I don't trust you won't cut your finger off."

We were in my kitchen now, appropriate food put away and the rest strewn out in disorganized organization on my tiny counter. I insisted we order the reliable pizza, but Haru said I had to learn to cook a meal at some point and promptly hid my phone somewhere in that flannel that—good looks be damned, Haru—had way too many pockets for its own good.

Haru also insisted we have at least one healthy snack among the snacks we brought in case we 'needed a break from all the junk food'. I had to say, as great as Haru was, it was immensely disappointing to find out he was the carrot stick kid.

I told him so too as he began to skin the apple.

"You're the carrot stick kid," I said.

Haru didn't even look up. "Considering you called me a walnut already today, I'm not even going to ask what that means."

"Means you have asthma and a gluten allergy and tell people to be quiet because you have a soccer game in the morning but still stay up till midnight solely to correct people when they say 'today' and you say 'but it's tomorrow, Thomas' and then ask Mrs. Jenkins in the morning if the butter for the box pancakes are vegan."

Haru set the apple down to give me a completely bewildered and mildly annoyed look. "What in the world is in your drinking water?"

"What? It's a common analogy."

"Angel, I think all that MSG in the ramen has gotten to your head."

"See? What even is MSG?"

"Monosodium glutamate, and likely the reason you've lost it." Haru shook his head. "I don't even know a Thomas. Or a Mrs. Jenkins. Who are these people?"