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I step to the side of the bed and look down at her. Her hair swallows most of the pillow, and there is a hazy-dreamy expression on her face.
Her gaze zeros in on me. “How did you walk over here so fast?”
“How do you mean? Who are you talking to?”
“You. Duh.” She points to the space at the end of the bed, beside the door. “Haven’t you been standing there for a while?”
I look back. “That’s a… bedpost.”
Komal stares at the bedpost and then looks at me.
She covers her mouth, the corners of her eyes watering. Something kicks me in the stomach until I realize she isn't crying. She's snickering.
“A bedpost? I've been sharing my shit with abedpost?”
I can't help but crack, too.
Suddenly, we’re laughing. She buries her head into her hands, huffing and gasping. “Can’t believe it,” she wheezes out. “I was having the deepest conversation of my life with a fucking bedpost!”
As I let myself laugh, everything fires alive. It’s euphoric. Addictive. She's the only one this feeling comes out for. I've been told I'm the silent, serious type. I chuckle, if anything.
This is not amusement. I'm holding my stomach and laughing. She's the only one who gets me to this state.
Afterward, wiping the tears from her eyes, Komal sits up. “We need to check if I'm alright in the head. Hold up your fingers.”
I give her three.
“Two.”
I bring my hand up to her face. “Try again.”
“Or we can play a different game?” I don't see her move, because she's so quick in reaching out. Her finger taps my mouth. Tension wallops back and stuffs the air.I feel like a freight-truck hanging off the side of a cliff.
“Komal.”
“Don’t you want to?”
My free hand finds the headboard. I’m not answering that question. Instead I say, “I’ll find a couch to sleep on.”
“You could,” she says. “But I’ll have a terrible night. What I mean is that when I drink like this”—she squirms as if there is aliveness inside her—“the night turns to shit. It’s fine when I’m awake and if I’m speaking to you, but as soon as I attempt to sleep—” She sighs. “Nausea hits me. Really, I hate it. I wish I was one of those people who drink and pass out, but I’m not. I suffer.”
“Will water help?”
“Sure.”
She's turned her head. She's not telling me the complete truth. "Tell me what you need.”
“You won’t like it.”
“That doesn't matter. Tell me what you want.”
“You could hold me?”
She must see my panic, for she rushes out, “Only for a bit. If you hold me tight, it feels like a weighted blanket.” Her mouth goes straight. “But this isn’t part of your duty. I’m asking as a kind of… friend? You are within your rights to say no. That’s an acceptable answer. Don’t feel pressure to say yes. Honestly, say no. I'm pushing too much, I know.”
I thinkNo. But I’m pulling myself down on the bed and turning her so her back cradles my chest. My hands rub her arms.
This is strictly helpful. Dutiful, even.
