Losing Clementine by Ashley Ream Page B

on.
    â€œI mean, is that art criticism or what—secretly we all just love it because, well, it’s a spectacle, and isn’t that what we’re all about, but also Elaine is such a you-know-what, and the work she was showing, I mean really, it’s so obvious, just hit the viewer over the head, why don’t you, it’s too bad for the Taylor, but on the other hand, you know what they say about all publicity being good publicity.” The whole spiel came out in one long sentence. “I even heard the guy who bought the piece was ecstatic. Thinks it’s worth more now.”
    â€œReally?”
    She nodded and took a simultaneous breath and a sip of her champagne.
    Some sort of silent signal must have been given, because everyone was taking the seats around us.
    â€œPersonally,” Susan went on as people pulled out chairs and bumped into us and jostled the table, making the candles wobble and flicker, “I’m experimenting with luster right now. How about you?”
    â€œI’m thinking about death.”
    â€œAren’t we all?” she said and laughed.
    The arm of a waiter reached around and set a chilled white plate in front of me with a small pile of greens and one curl of Parmesan cheese.

23 Days
    When I woke up, all my limbs felt a hundred times heavier than they did on other days, which was how I knew. Chuckles jumped up on the edge of the bed and picked his way on light paws up to my head. He bent down and sniffed my eyelashes. If I killed myself, I thought, before finding him a home, he’d probably start eating my body within a couple of days. That would be pretty gross.
    My mind floated, or maybe it was sinking. I didn’t want to get up. Not then and possibly not ever. I did have to pee. I considered this from a distance, like it was someone else who had to pee and not me. How important was it to try to make it to the toilet when your limbs weighed five hundred pounds each? Wouldn’t it be better just to stay where you were?
    Then someone knocked on my door.
    I screwed up my eyebrows because that often made thinking easier, except today was one of those days, and nothing would be easy no matter what I did to my eyebrows. I really did need to make some sort of plan for my remains. That wasn’t something you wanted to trust Aunt Trudy with. Lord knew what could happen.
    The knock came again, which meant it wasn’t some delivery person leaving a box. It also meant the main door downstairs had been left open for every tweaker and Jehovah’s Witness from here to Oxnard.
    I opened my eyes, which took a supreme effort, and wished I’d remembered to train Chuckles to open the front door. He really wasn’t pulling his weight. I thought about that for a minute, while the addict-intruder-religious nut banged some more, and I decided not to pee on the mattress.
    I went to the bathroom and avoided looking in the mirror the way a Hasid avoids Hustler before pouring out some cat chow for Chuckles. When I’d finished all that, the knocking was still there. I looked through the peephole and opened the door, wearing underpants and a tank top through which you could almost certainly see my nipples.
    â€œSo you’re alive.”
    Carla’s hair was as short as hair could be and still be said to exist. It was nothing but a shadow over her chocolate-colored scalp. If you had a head as perfectly shaped and perched on as long a neck as she did, you might shave your head, too.
    I didn’t respond.
    â€œSo are you having one of your artist’s moods or are you just rude?”
    I wanted to go back to bed, and so I did. I just walked away from the door and left Carla standing there. I heard her come in a few moments after I collapsed in a heap. I heard the soft tap-tap-tap of her ballet-slippered feet across the floor. Even her footsteps were elegant.
    She stopped before she got anywhere near the bed.
    Chuckles meowed.
    In the garage, someone