“Mmmm,” I said after the waiter left, and Augustus smiled crookedly as he stared down the canal while I stared up it.
We had plenty to look at, so the silence didn’t feel awkward really, but I wanted everything to be perfect.
It was perfect, I guess, but it felt like someone had tried to stage the Amsterdam of my imagination,
which made it hard to forget that this dinner, like the trip itself, was a cancer perk.
I just wanted us to be talking and joking comfortably, like we were on the couch together back home, but some tension underlay everything.
“It’s not my funeral suit,” he said after a while. “When I first found out I was sick—
I mean, they told me I had like an eighty-five percent chance of cure.
I know those are great odds, but I kept thinking it was a game of Russian roulette.
I mean, I was going to have to go through hell for six months or a year and lose my leg and then at the end, it still might not work, you know?”
“I know,” I said, although I didn’t, not really. I’d never been anything but terminal;
all my treatment had been in pursuit of extending my life, not curing my cancer.
Phalanxifor had introduced a measure of ambiguity to my cancer story, but I was different from Augustus:
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