Page 37 of She’s a Doll

Yep. So, eh, if I move really fast, or if I’m still and don’t respond for a really long time, don’t worry.

“Right. Sure. Great. That’s . . . that’s a thing, then, I guess.”

Yeah. It sucks. I stood for an awkward few seconds, the thread in my neck straining as I gazed up at her. And, eh, I just wanted to say thanks again, for buying me, and fixing me, and not smashing me. I reached out to put my doll hand on the denim of her jeans in what I hoped was an appreciative gesture. You’re a true friend.

“Why are you touching my knee?”

I removed my hand. Sorry. Just . . . seemed like the thing to do.

“You’re so weird.”

You’re talking to a ghost through your hearing aid, I reminded her. Welcome to Weirdville, population two.

“That’s a dated reference.”

That’s a reference?

“Two fifty a week,” she said again. “Plus the forty cents you still owe me. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you get to escape capitalism.”

Call my lawyer, I replied, and tottered away. Collect it out of my will.

“You have a lawyer?” she asked.

Nope. Don’t have a will either.

She snorted but didn’t say anything else.

I wobbled around the house, discovering and exploring a living room, a kitchen, a narrow bedroom, and an even narrower bathroom. The apartment had clearly seen better days, but it was cozy, clean, and sparsely furnished, which felt strange, but not in a bad way. There were no stacks of stuff, no boxes, and only a couple of cabinets.

For a while, Nicola watched me explore, a figure standing in the doorway, or leaning against the wall. Eventually she must’ve gotten bored, because she left me to it and went about her business, sometimes in a blur and sometimes in a slow creep.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for as I wandered around Nicola’s home. I found a few interesting things. A small collection of books, none of them classics, stacked up on a shelf in the hallway. An air vent in the kitchen I was pretty sure I could hide inside if I ever needed to disappear. A fern sitting in the corner of the bedroom, green and clearly well loved. I wondered what it had that the plant in the hallway didn’t.

But the thing that stopped me was the shower.

It wasn’t fancy. Small, freestanding, and squished into the corner behind a plastic see-through curtain. The black and white tiles clacked beneath my porcelain feet as I approached.

I stood in it for a long time, staring up at the tap and, above that, the showerhead hanging from its mount, dizzyingly high. I hadn’t had a shower in . . . years. Nicola had said it had been years. I didn’t think I could now, not without the fabric beneath my duct tape getting damp and gross.

Some ablutomane I was.

Not that it mattered. I didn’t sweat. I didn’t cry. I didn’t need to be clean. But for some reason that piece of lost humanity felt sharper than it should’ve. A loss I hadn’t thought about until now, which paled in comparison to everything else that had been taken from me but which still hurt.

When I heard the TV, I made my way into the living room and stumbled up to the sofa. Nicola was already there, curled against one of the armrests, a microwave meal steaming softly in her lap. Time must’ve been going slow while I approached, because she flinched when she saw me.

What are we watching? I asked as I tried to climb up onto the sofa. It was harder than it looked, the cushion above my head plump enough that I couldn’t find purchase.

“The Walking Dead,” Nicola answered.

Seriously?

“I thought it was about time for a rewatch,” she said, and spooned some pasta into her mouth. “Felt topical.”

I never saw it.

“I’m not going back to the beginning.”

That’s cool. I’ll just . . . eh . . . I hadn’t got further than putting my arms up onto the sofa cushion.