Begin somewhere very far from the point. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

God, don’t remind me. I sat in that waiting room for forty-five minutes because the receptionist was arguing with someone on the phone about a wrong number. I just stared at the goldfish. One was definitely a statue. I bet my life savings on it. Maybe two. It’s hilarious, really. We pay money to sit and stare at decaying aquatic life while waiting to have our teeth prodded. What a lifestyle.

Right? It’s the silence that kills me. Mine puts me in charge of the quarterly reports tomorrow morning. Which is funny, because I haven’t done any of the work. Just sit there, sweating through my blouse, pretending to read a magazine from 2019. I almost laughed at a word search once. The nurse looked at me like I was cracking up. I didn’t mention the fish. I’m not that crazy. Yet.

Procrastination is just another form of work, technically. You’re working hard on not working. It’s exhausting. I usually buy something unnecessary to distract myself. Last week it was a blender I don’t need. Now I’m staring at it while dreading the spreadsheet. The blender wins. It’s quieter. And it doesn’t judge me for not opening Excel. Go on, Ben. Be productive. Or don’t. I’m just jealous.

You’re torturing me. I can see it. Your shoulders are up by your ears. Just say it. Did you steal my blender? Did you eat my lunch? Or is it something worse? Something about the quarterly reports? Come on, Ben. I have a life, I have deadlines, I have a dead fish staring at me. I can handle whatever you’ve got. Spit it out before I start screaming. Or laugh. I might laugh. I don’t know anymore.

Rehearsing? Ugh, you’re the worst. Always the fan in the audience for your own internal monologue. It’s giving me anxiety just listening to you practice not saying it. You’re holding your breath, I can see it. Like a frog waiting for the pot to boil. Just drop the line. If it’s bad, we’ll blame the fish. If it’s good, I’ll pretend I knew it all along. Stop pacing the verbal tightrope. It’s making my own toothache worse.

Marta? Oh. Right. Her. I forgot she existed until you said it. The one with the laugh that sounds like a car backfiring? Wait, no, that’s my sister. This is bad. Is she okay? Or is she not okay? You’re looking at the floor. That’s never good. Don’t tell me you slept with her. Please say you slept with her. That’s easier. Easier than whatever “something happened” means. My heart is doing that thing where it forgets to beat. Go on.

Hospital. Since Tuesday. Jesus, Ben. Why didn’t you just say it? You’re acting like you’ve murdered someone. I was ready for scandal, and you give me pathology. That’s almost worse. I feel like an idiot for worrying about blenders. Did she get hit by a car? Is it the cancer again? Don’t look at me like that. I’m here. I’m listening. Just stop pacing. Tell me the name of the hospital. I need to go yell at a nurse. Or bring fruit. Fruit is safe.

St. Bonaventure. Third floor. Heart. God. That’s… heavy. You should have called. Or not called. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now. I’m glad she’s not dead. That’s the most important thing. The rest is just noise. Did you go see her? Or are you hiding in the dentist’s chair? Don’t look at me like I’m judging you. I’m panicking internally. It’s quieter that way. How long is she there for? Like, weeks? Months? Just give me a number so I can start worrying appropriately.

Two weeks. A long time to hold your breath. You’re carrying all of this alone? That’s… stupid, Ben. Really stupid. Your brother needs to know. You can’t be the sole keeper of the world’s secrets while starving yourself and staring at blenders. I’m coming with you. St. Bonaventure. Third floor. I have a report due tomorrow that I haven’t touched. Perfect. I’ll ignore it. Marta gets priority. And stop apologizing. You’re not the one who collapsed. But you’re the one holding the fort. Let me help carry the bricks. Just a little.

Fruit. Right. Apples. Bananas. Something that doesn’t taste like plastic and despair. I’ll stop at the bodega. They have those weird pears that are basically rocks. She’ll love them. Or hate them. Either way, it’s an event. Don’t look so grim, Ben. You’re going to turn into a statue like the fish. Just breathe. I’ll be there. Seven? I need to pretend to work first. For at least ten minutes. Then I’m out. Don’t wait up. Or do. I don’t care. Just make sure the fruit is fresh. Please. I don’t want to be the person who brings bruised peaches to a hospital visit. That’s a level of bad luck I can’t afford.

Weird is my middle name. Well, actually it’s Mary, but you get it. I’m not making it weird. I’m making it manageable. There’s a difference. And don’t thank me. If you thank me, I’ll have to buy the fruit twice. Or tell a joke. And I’m out of those. Just show up. Don’t wear black. It’s depressing. Wear something bright. Like yellow. Or that terrible sweater you hate. Whatever. Just be there. Seven. Don’t be late. I have a reputation to uphold. A mostly non-existent one, but still.

Funeral? Wow. Optimism. I love it. At least you’re not making it weird. I’ll stick to apples. Or that weird juice box thing she used to like. I remember. Don’t worry. I’m the expert in inappropriate gifts. Last time I brought a penguin plushie to a job interview. It didn’t go well. Marta’s heart is safe from penguins, though. Probably. Seven o'clock. Don't be late. And put on the yellow. Please. For my sanity. And the fish. They need the morale boost.