“Miss Oliphant?” he said. His voice was cautious, quiet. “Three liters of Glen’s, please,” I said.
My voice sounded strange—croaky and broken. I hadn’t used it for some time, I supposed,
and then there was all that vomiting. He placed one before me, then seemed to hesitate.
“Three, Miss Oliphant?” he said. I nodded. Slowly, he put another two bottles on the counter,
all of them now lined up like skittles that I’d need to knock over, knock back.
“Anything else?” he said. I briefly considered a loaf of bread or a tin of spaghetti, but I was not in the least bit hungry.
I shook my head and offered him my debit card. My hand was shaking and I tried to control it, but failed.
I punched in the numbers, and the wait for the receipt to be printed was interminable.
A pile of evening newspapers sat on the counter beside the till, and I saw that it was Friday.
Mr. Dewan had fixed a mirror on the wall to see into all the shop corners, and I caught sight of myself in it.
I was gray white, the color of larvae, and my hair stood on end. My eyes were dark hollows, empty, dead.
I noted all of this with complete indifference. Nothing could be less important than my appearance, absolutely nothing.
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