Primordial: An Abstraction

73

One of my roommates dies.

It’s his ninety-third birthday.

We make him a cake and he gets so excited he begins to hyperventilate and he can’t calm down.

We watch him.

His skin turns purple. His veins inflate. His cheeks puff out. He grips fistfuls of air. He makes a sound like a toad trying to play a flute. He makes another sound like an imploding brick.

Eventually he falls sideways onto a chair, smashing it.

Nobody knows CPR.

That makes my eldest roommate eighty-nine now. I tell him he’s in charge and sort of laugh until my stomach hurts. Then I ask if he likes me. I ask all of my roommates if they like me.

“I just want to be liked,” I admit.