Kiseru

I noticed she never ate. The nurses and doctors pleaded but that made it worse. She quietly excused herself from the table and didn’t emerge from her room for hours when they pleaded. I couldn’t blame her. The food was awful. Hospital food is a special kind of torture. They served it to us in trays that felt like prison. No forks or knives. Only spoons.

As I slowly slipped back out of own psychosis, my body a wreck and sore. One of the few activities we were permitted was basketball. 20 minutes, if weather permitted. She played every day. She was good. Really good. I always hated sports and was wretched at them; but I asked her if I could play. The basketballs were all half deflated from patients being too rough; but she still encouraged me no matter how many times I missed.

Our conversations were disorganized and slow. But we kept each other company for small spurts. We related on little things like missing tortillas.

The days blurred by, but I started saving her a seat at our speckled grey tables they doctors called a “dining room”. Our meals unceremoniously rolled out in the cart that rattled loud enough to wake the dead.