Maslow’s pyramid seemed to imply that I was less human than other people, and most people seemed to agree with him. But not Augustus.
I always thought he could love me because he’d once been sick. Only now did it occur to me that maybe he still was.
We arrived in my room, the Kierkegaard. I sat down on the bed expecting him to join me, but he hunkered down in the dusty paisley chair.
That chair. How old was it? Fifty years?
I felt the ball in the base of my throat hardening as I watched him pull a cigarette from his pack and stick it between his lips.
He leaned back and sighed. “Just before you went into the ICU, I started to feel this ache in my hip.”
“No,” I said. Panic rolled in, pulled me under. He nodded. “So I went in for a PET scan.” He stopped.
He yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and clenched his teeth.
Much of my life had been devoted to trying not to cry in front of people who loved me, so I knew what Augustus was doing.
You clench your teeth. You look up. You tell yourself that if they see you cry, it will hurt them,
and you will be nothing but A Sadness in their lives, and you must not become a mere sadness,
so you will not cry, and you say all of this to yourself while looking up at the ceiling,
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