He was a patient man, but after twelve years Arlo’d had enough. The shamelessness. And the chronic lateness. And the bailing. He’d had to train himself not to consider their plans confirmed until she was present and in his sights. So it was with great aggravation that he found himself sitting at the diner. Waiting for Casey. Again.

Thirty-seven minutes later, she exploded through the door of the diner. She was a bundle of bags (hand-, shopping, and messenger) and incognito accessories (headscarf, oversized sunglasses). After making her way over, she thomped into the brown vinyl booth and grabbed hold of her waiting, sweaty water glass. As Arlo watched the slivers of melting ice slosh at its surface, she caught her breath. In that last moment of quiet, Arlo tried to recall why they were friends in the first place. Failing that, he resigned to hoping the meeting would be brief. Soon, though, it was clear that instead of getting his (a) keys and (b) money back, he’d only receive a litany of excuses. Again.

“I know I’m late. It’s been a shitty week,” she began. “I really hoped not to have to get into it. And I totally have money for you.” Casey’s excuses were predictable and Arlo knew a “but” loomed. “But,” she delivered. “I was just getting cash. That shady ATM on Waverly? It kept saying, ‘Cannot complete transaction,’ or whatever. And, I don’t know, I guess I tried too many times and it wouldn’t spit out my card. And the bodega guys were not helpful.”

Bold, thought Arlo. A combination excuse, both portions of which were recent repeats. Her expressive, manipulating eyes searched for understanding, but fanned Arlo’s irritation instead. He looked down at his lukewarm coffee and stirred. “You really have uncanny bank luck,” he said flatly. Unmoved by — or impervious to — the passive aggression, she went on.

“Seriously. Now I have to wait, like, seven business days for a replacement. It’s so… inconvenient. And I feel awful, of course, because, I mean, I did have money for you. Do, I mean. Do have money.”

“It’s fine. Do you have the key? I want the neighbors to have it. For emergencies, you know. Making copies is weirdly expensive.” Arlo tried to move things along.

“Totally.” Casey dug into her cavernous bag, creating junk heaps on the table as she searched. Receipts, gum wrappers, a rumpled cardigan, wadded plastic bags, the cellophane-string-rectangle unmistakably torn from a pack of cigarettes, a worn copy of “The Alchemist” likely adopted from the street. “Got it.”

When she handed over the key with its now-dingy “Aloha from Maui” rainbow fob, Arlo knew he held in his hand all that he’d come for. He knew, and didn’t care, that he wouldn’t see the money again. Three hundred dollars was a fair price for this being their final interaction. Sure, twelve years of history was a lot to walk away from, but he was tired of the chore. And he already felt lighter at not letting guilt or obligation get the best of him. Not again, anyway.

christopher nolan films (batmans excluded) | mayonnaise | the doors | the universal appeal of kyle maclachlan’s handsomeness | budweiser | haruki murakami | potatoes (fried varieties excluded) | that popcorn smell | fine tip pens

I lived for 30 years with two brothers. And I’ve lived, now, for 6 with only one. The day my brother Victor died, one of the first things I thought about was what I would say when someone eventually asks me how many siblings I have. It’s a stupid detail. I knew that at the time. Yet, it has more or less been on my mind since that day.

I ran out of the hospital room Vic was in because, apparently, he was about to die. Now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I believe I’d ideally want all the people I love in the room with me when I die. But that day, I felt certain that Vic would want me to do whatever I want. I’m still not super sure which is right and I’ve come to terms with the fact that it really doesn’t matter at all. He was unconscious (whatever that really means) when he went away. I couldn’t watch anything involving a hospital on television for months. The blips and beeps and, especially, those long, lingering tones made my skin tingle and my bones ache.

As I headed back to the waiting room full of my extended family, I was texting my best friend. I wanted her to tell me I didn’t have to be in the room and she did. I didn’t get very far in my flight. Very soon after I walked out, my sister-in-law (not Vic’s widow) came for me. She, as most people do, felt I’d want to be there. But by the time I got back in, that tone was toning. And hysteria had already replaced fear as the primary energy in the room. Everyone was broken. No one in the room knew what they were anymore. Or how they could be something other than what they had been 1, 10, a thousand minutes earlier. A wife. Parents of 3 adult children. The oldest brother. A sister to 2. A medical resident caught by surprise.

We all cried – even the young doctor. We couldn’t have done anything else. Our minds and bodies shut down and the only thing we could produce were hot tears and short breath. But once I could, I fled again. I walked as far away from that part of my life as I could and found the closest outside I could escape to. It was a sunny day in October and I stood under a turning tree. Breathing, being mad that I could still breathe. Being confused. I sent a text letting people outside of the hospital know what had happened. I thought that was important.

I cried alone and thought about the new stain on everything. The clothes I was wearing. New Haven. Sunny fall days. All of these things would be a reminder of the Worst Thing That Ever Happened.

I started to feel bad about not thinking about my brother. His empty body and his full life. But, you know, when something that terrible happens I have to tell you, you don’t have to think about it. It’s just inside you.