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POPPY
"Hi, beautiful."Parispulled up the chair next to mine.Aslightly protruding midsection grazed the edge of the table when he plopped down.Hisyellow shirt might have cost a pretty penny, but it wasn't made of magic.
Parislooked me up and down, throwing some of his infamous smoldering my way.Itwas meant to be alluring because he thought girls found him deep and mysterious.Thepretentious poems he wrote supported my theory.Hewanted to appear profound, though he had nothing insightful to share.
"Hello."Ileaned away to escape the scent of heavily doused cologne, pretending to rifle through the breadbasket.PerhapsPariscould’ve been good-looking were it not for his personality.
Mom’seyes were steadfast onParis.Shebuttered a piece of bread with sharp stabs, likely imagining his face.Theloathing was justified.
"Ican’t believe what happened last night."
Inodded, foreseeing the direction of this conversation.Anarcissist at heart,Parishad the uncanny ability to make everything about himself.Ibet he’d do the same withRose’saccident.
First, he’d mention how upset he was aboutRosie'smisfortune.Thenhe'd complain how no one was at his million-dollar penthouse to console him, leaving him emotionally fragile.Finally,Pariswould write a poem about his mental state.Ifpeople declined to hear it, he'd claim starving artists were always unappreciated in their time.Bythe end of the conversation, he'd be the real victim, his emotional distress surpassingRose'sailment.
"ImaginingRose'spain and what she must've felt..."Parisshuddered as if it were involuntary. "Itcreated a pain inside me thatIdidn’t know existed.Itwas awful.Ihaven’t been able to sleep sinceIfound out.”
Ispread butter on my burnt focaccia. “Youmean since you found out about it ten hours ago?”
Parismade a face. “Ifound out thirteen hours ago.I’vebeen up ever since.”
“Thirteenhours ago would’ve been six o’clock in the morning,”Ipointed out.
“Ithink worrying aboutRosegave me insomnia."
"Hmm.”
"Doyou know there is a type of insomnia calledFFI,FatalFamilialInsomnia?Igoogled it.Ibet that’s whatIdeveloped from my anxiety.”
"Ohyeah?"
"Ifyou think about it,Roseis lucky.Sheonly hit her head, but she’ll recover.WhereasFFIis an ongoing sleep deprivation that eventually leads to death."
Ahalf smile greeted my lips asIbit into the dry bread.Momscorched the end pieces for my benefit.
"Theworst part was lying in bed and waiting for death in my big, empty condo.Doyou know the placeI'mtalking about, my penthouse?"
Itwas a non-rhetorical question. "Youmight've mentioned it once or twice."
"Threethousand square feet, overlooksCentralPark, built-in elevator.Anyway,Iwas lying there and dealing withFatalInsomnia?—"
"FatalFamilialInsomnia,"Icorrected.
Hefrowned. "Right,FatalFamilialInsomnia.Noone was there to hold my hand, andIcould have died alone.Howdo you come back from emotional trauma like that?"
Inodded. “It’simpossible,Iimagine.”
"Ikept thinking, what ifIdied and no one knew my last thoughts?So,Igrabbed a pen and paper and put my feelings into words.Endedup writing my best poem yet.It’swhat happens when your emotions are raw from seeing death up close.”
Pariswas three for three.Apersonal best since it took him less than five minutes to turnRose'smisfortune utterly and entirely about himself.Parisacted like a petulant child at thirty, unlike a particular twenty-five-year-oldCEOdripping with maturity.Unableto help myself,Iunlocked my phone under the table.
Unknown:Theword mayhem should never be used when referring to a date.
Unknown:Don’tsuffer through a date because your grandmother says so.Ditchhim.
Unknown:Youthere?
Unknown:Areyou talking to him?Isthat why you aren’t responding?
