“And you still have a full head of hair,” I observe.
“For now.”
“They said you’re getting better,” I remind him.
Noah nods. “Yeah, but it can always turn. One minute you’re walking around, whistling a little tune, enjoying the sunshine … the next minute you’re dead. Bodies are fragile.”
He’s right about that. Visions of the corpse that fell from her cubby flash through my mind, images of that sickening, flattened face smeared across the clear plastic of her body bag. It’s a vivid painting of coagulated blood, bone fragments, and shattered teeth.
I see the gun club stripping her down and then battling against the awkward dead weight as they wrangled a wedding dress onto her. As I drove away, I glimpsed the mob in my rearview mirror. They were propping the cadaver up against a hay bale, then placing a dark wig onto her smashed head, ready for target practice.
“I’d prefer something quick,” Noah says, breaking through my mental haze. “I just don’t wanna see it coming. Waiting is too …” He hesitates, his voice wavering slightly. In this flickering moment, I feel like I’m looking at an eight-year-old boy. “Too scary,” he finally says, then clears his throat and sits up a bit.
The matching surge of emotion that bubbles up within me is deeply uncomfortable. It’s enough for me to finally change the subject.
“How’s work?” I ask.
Noah leans back in his chair and stretches with his whole chest, taking up space in the world. He’s fit, and it shows when he moves in this tight shirt that can barely contain his biceps. If I were straight I’d already have broken his heart by now, but fortunately I’m not, and instead I’ve found myself with something I never thought I’d have: a best friend.
Still, the moment causes a faint lump in my throat as I notice that his muscles aren’t quite as swollen as they used to be. Slowly but surely, his battle with cancer has been chipping away at him, his own body betraying itself.
“It’s fucking wonderful,” Noah says. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Working at the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway isfucking wonderful?” I blurt. “You don’t wanna, like, travel the world or something?”
“I like my job,” he replies. “I like going up into the mountains every day, and it only takes ten minutes.”
Despite his toned features, Noah wouldn’t be caught dead in a gym. He’s an outdoorsman at heart, one of the rare Palm Springs guys who love this city for the proximity to hiking trails, not the ample dick.
Because of this, I actually kinda understand why a job running the Palm Springs Tram feels right to him. Technically speaking, he works for the parks department, which makes all kinds of sense.
The waiter soon returns with our drinks, carefully placing each beverage before us and then taking our orders. Noah gets the bacon cheeseburger, while I opt for a salmon salad with vinaigrette dressing.
Of course, this doesn’t stop him from reaching over a few times and stealing one or two bites of my salad. He does this without asking, not because he’s a prick, but because he’s too impulsive to even register the movements of his own hand. Like a giant child, Noah has a habit of acting without thinking, or speaking without knowing where the words will lead. That’s probably why he and Marlo get along.
As the sky continues its transition from day to night, I can’t help reveling in hownormalit all feels. Marlo will be home later—she’s currently enjoying herself at a friend’s birthday party—but for the next few hours it’s just me and Noah kicking back and appreciating each other’s company.
I notice now that “Another Long Day” by Eddie Michaels is playing over the restaurant speakers, his undead voice floating along behind the chatter of the other patrons and the clink of busy silverware. I momentarily consider bringing up the crash, asking if Noah saw the video this morning, but I stop myself.
The specter of death has loomed enough over tonight’s conversation.
“Any hot dates?” Noah asks.
I almost spit out my drink, literally reaching up to cover my mouth so I don’t accidently spray him. I wipe up the tiny stream of French 75 that runs down my chin and then swallow what’s left, shaking my head.
Noah is laughing, too. “That crazy of a suggestion, huh?”
“I don’t have time to date,” I remind him.
Every woman I meet is already dead, I think, but I don’t say this part out loud.
“I told you to get on Raya,” he presses. “Or date one of your many fans. What are we up to now? Like a hundred thousand followers?”
I scoff. “Please.Two hundred and sixteen thousand.”
“And you don’t want to date any of those beautiful ladies?”
I shake my head. “I think that’s problematic—dating fans.”
