Other Stories in this issue

No Cook

by Peri Dwyer Worrell

About the Author: Raised in Spanish Harlem and educated in Atlanta, Peri is a licensed chiropractor currently residing in Ecuador.

Excerpt

I took my medication today.

The little blue lozenge went down easily. I don’t think it helps; I don’t feel better, just dull and blah, but my friends tell me it helps the way I act, and I have to admit I’ve not chucked my life and run off since I’ve been taking it, so it’s probably helping. That, and sobriety. And painting. I finish the canvas I was working on yesterday, the landscape with the yellow flowers and shining sun and cascades of butterflies. It makes me happy. I set it next to the rest of this month’s canvases. I need to call the Art Bar about displaying them. Today I don’t feel like painting. The weather has given us a reprieve; grey snow is forming weird shapes as it melts and the gutters are full of slush. I hear a sparrow out on the fire escape and I remember it’s Saturday. Since I got my SSI disability I lose track.

I eat my breakfast of a boiled egg and two cups of black coffee (no sugar) and call Siobhan again. She doesn’t answer. Her voicemail is full. I’ve been calling her for a week now. She stopped posting on Facebook about a month ago. Her last Tweet was in November; it’s now February. I’m starting to worry. Siobhan’s been slow to respond to texts, and screens her calls, since her mom Trudy died two—no three—years ago, but she’s not usually out of touch this long.

I call Linda Hölmgren. Her dank voice tells me she just woke up. Probably with someone she met last night. Or more than one person …

“Hello, your Majesty,” I chirp. “has the staff not brought your breakfast in bed yet?”

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