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"Come on, Sisi. He feels really bad and he needs his family," my supposedly reformed-cheater brother in-law pleads.
"He can go find that two-dollar ho he dropped his pants for. She can be his new family."
"There's no need for that." David's voice is low, but I hear him clearly.
"Shiiiiit." What follows is my sister's entire cussing repertoire. An extensive portfolio with curated entries, from the classics like “asshole” and “motherfucker” to innovative, new-age dirt like “fuck bucket” and “stunted dick.”
"I'm hanging up, Sisi. Love you."
"Me too. Call me if you need anything."
I'm going to take a hot shower, have a drink and try to get some sleep. But I take one step and my chest begins to contract.Oh no. I take another step. I need to keep in motion.But, oh shit. My chest is shrinking, and the familiar pressure builds until I'm no longer comfortable and the walls start moving in on me. All I can think is, “Breathe.”But I can't.I can't even count to three.
I tug at my shirt, searching for air I don't seem to get. I'm panicking and alone. I stumble to the door. I grab my purse off the table nearby and in less than a minute I'm in the stairwell heading down.
The too-white walls make everything lighter and I concentrate on counting my way down six floors. By the time I reach the lobby, my breathing is semi-normal again. There are a few people in the adjoining bar but there’s enough room for me not to feel crowded. I can sit and have a drink, calm my nerves and then head back up to bed.
