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“Yeah?” More coughing. Is she sick? Or is there something more devious causing her to cough? An intruder, poison, a fire. My mind goes to horrible places.
“It’s never closed.”
“I was closed like three days ago.” I bang my head on the door in frustration and make an effort to bring my voice down, to pour calm into it.
“Lola, let me in.”
‘Why?” She sounds confused.
How fucking dense is this woman?
But moreover, how much do I want to reveal about my feelings to her?
“I need to make sure you are okay.” A beat of silence passes before she answers.
“I’m fine.” Coughing. Lots of it.
“You don’t sound okay.”
“Because I’m shouting through a fucking door when I should be resting.”
Again, it takes a lot more than it should to resist laughing.
“Lola. Let me in.”
“No.”
“Lola.”
“You break down that door, I’m going to call the cops.”
“I’m not going to break down your door, Lola.” My hand reaches into my pocket.
“Good. Go away. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Fuck that.
Fuck her thinking I’m just going to leave when something is clearly wrong.
I slip the key into the door.
“Ben, what the—”
I unlock the door, turning the knob and pushing it open.
Panic is flooding me as I do so, part of me scared I’ll see the worst.
Instead, I see Lola.
Or should I say, a pile of blankets in the form of Lola and a small Lola head popping out from the center. Her braids are gone. Instead, a loose, messy, ratty bun sits on the top of her head.
“Jesus, babe,” I say, my voice low as I look around at the mess surrounding her.
“How the fuck did you get in here?”
She looks like death warmed over. Eyes sunken, nose bright red, cheeks somehow both flushed but also pale.
She’s sick.
