Breakfast

by HelluvaGirl

You have to try it with white bread. I can't eat white bread. Just a bite. It's more delicious this way.
I can feel annoyance stirring up but obediently do what he says. Less fuss this way. As we eat, I notice his hands trembling. I look down at my plate. 
I said I needed to tell you something, remember? It's not exactly a thing I like to share but the past year was very hard on me. Remember Andrew?
A slight nausea begins to amass below my chest like a thick cloud. I continue eating nonetheless.
I have been diagnosed a year ago. Saw two different doctors; one of them thinks I am completely functional, the other one is less optimistic. I'm having a biopsy in a couple of weeks.
I calmly put my cutlery on the table.
Why are you telling me now?
He looks as if the stage lights are on him.
Because I wanted to be open with you. I know it's quite a terrible disease and associations are probably worse but the doctor said I was doing quite well and that I wasn't really infectious.
I ask again:
No. Why are you telling me NOW? Because I'm sure it's nothing... it's not something you can... I didn't exactly read about it or anything - I would've started to freak out I guess. But I'm sure it's not dangerous.
I look at his face.
You didn't want to know what it's going to be? I would've probably started to treat myself in funny ways so decided to think about it as little as I could. But you kept it away from me while it could make a difference and didn't leave me a chance to make an educated choice whether I wanted to risk getting fatally ill. Can't you see the difference between then and now? Hey, you're blowing it out of proportion. Oh?
Right now, his face looks old, regardless of the treatments more expensive than my monthly rent.
You withheld it from me for a reason. Why? Because I'm sure it's not dangerous. Listen, why have a conflict? You want to believe it's not dangerous. The reason you didn't tell me is too simplistic to even articulate. How are we friends exactly? I am telling you what I feel because that's what friends do: I feel deceived.
I stand up from the table. I need to do something but he begins washing the dishes first. My fear exceeds anger. Had he told me earlier, I could've had tests done by now... What happens to Pia if I am sick? How will I explain it to her Father? Throwing him out the door is not something I consider. All this time I quietly repeat to myself he is but a tool, a messenger. There are no people or events, just God's Love, right... And we still are friends who suddenly fell into an unfamiliar space with no moves ready. What do I do? On my bedroom floor, I see a bag packed for the weekend. Not sure what's worse: the news or that I still have to spend two days with someone who made me a death wish. Possibly.Facebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterestmailFacebooktwittergoogle_pluspinterestmail
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