His eyebrows went up. “Oh, really? What kind?”
I cleared my throat, drew myself up to my full height, and intoned in plummy accents, “Tonight’s offering is a chocolate cherry cake with chocolate ganache frosting and sour cherry jam filling.”
The eyebrows went a little higher. “How…fancy. Not sure it entirely goes with noodles, but sure, I’m not gonna say no to cake.”
“It’s really good cake,” I promised. “I’ve bought from this bakery before.”
“Well, then, I’m definitely going to try some. C’mon.” He gestured me into the kitchen, where we found two curious cats inspecting the take-out containers sitting on the counter. Hen clapped once, loudly, and the furballs scattered. “Told you they’d try to eat it.”
“That you did.” This felt so…normal, and that felt fucking weird after the couple of weeks we’d been having. I was genuinely unsure how to interact with this Hen; I felt like if I said the slightest thing wrong it might send him spiraling again. Swallowing, determined to not be weird, I went to the counter and started sorting out the containers, which were helpfully labeled in black marker.
Five minutes later, we settled on the couch, each with a takeout box and a fork. I took a sip of my Thai iced tea and sighed. “So good. My precious.”
Hen snorted. “You sound like you’re in love with your drink, and I gotta tell you, I draw the line at bev-philia.”
“That isnota word,” I challenged through a mouthful of curry.
“It is now.” He pointed his fork at me. “The English language is a living thing and can be actively changed and added to by its speakers, and that’s not wrong English.” Taking in my slow blink at that pronouncement, he shrugged and hunched slightly. “I read a book about it,” he said defensively.
Of course he had. Hen had never gotten the memo that people who worked with their hands were supposed to be meatheads who didn’t do things like read. I liked that about him. “Tell me more,” I urged. “How does it go from one guy making up a word to an official English word?”
He drew in a deep breath. “Well -”
***
An hour later, the coffee table was strewn with empty food and drink containers and we were both slumped into the couch nursing our food babies. “That was so good,” I groaned, patting my belly, “but I shouldn’t have finished the rice.”
Hen tipped his head to the side, resting it lightly on my shoulder. “I warned you,” he teased with a smile.
“You did.” Couldn’t argue with that. “But it was so tasty, and it’s never the same once it’s been reheated. So basically I had to.”
He gave me a skeptical look but said nothing, sighing lightly and letting more of his weight rest on me. I lifted a hand to smooth down a piece of his hair that was tickling my cheek. “This is nice,” he said quietly after a minute. “I’ve missed you.”
My breath caught in my throat and I stifled the sudden urge to sob. “I’ve missed you too,” I managed thickly. “How…are you? Really?”
He sighed, picking up my hand and starting to play idly with my fingers as if to give himself something to focus on other than my question. “I don’t know. Surviving? Coping? What do you call it when things suck, but you’re coming around to the fact that you can’t stop them sucking and you’ve just gotta live with the suck?”
“Hm. That’s a lot of suck.”
“Alot,” he agreed.
“I guess I’d call it coping,” I said, then sighed. “I hate that you feel like you need to live in suck, though. I mean yes, the HIV stuff is suck, but surely everything else can be non-suck, and maybe provide a little balance?”
“I guess.” He turned his face deeper into my neck and drew in a breath. “I suppose I’m still pretty overwhelmed by thediagnosis and…I feel like I’m sort of numb to everything else? So it’s entirely possible that thereisnon-suck and I just can’t feel it.”
My poor baby. I petted his hair again. “I think that’s pretty unsurprising, even if it’s not what I want for you. I mean, you’re probably basically going through the stages of grief, except you’re mourning what you thought your life would go ahead like instead of mourning, like, a person.”
“So where am I in the stages of grief, then?” The words could have been a challenge, but they came out softly, as if he was hoping I could provide him direction he couldn’t grasp for himself.
I considered that for a long moment. “You’d know better than I would. I…haven’t really had a chance to get in your head lately, so I can only go on what I see on the surface. Which seems to be mostly depression.”
“Mmm.” He heaved a deep breath. “Calling it depression sounds so…official. Like, ‘Yes, hello, you have The Depression’. Does that mean I need to get on antidepressants?”
I could only shrug at that, partially dislodging his head. “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor, and I’m definitely notyourdoctor. But…maybe you should consider talking to your actual doctor? I mean, I feel like being depressed about this diagnosis is one hundred percent totally normal, but I don’t know how you tell when it goes from ‘normal reaction’ to ‘pathological’. That’s where a doctor, or maybe just your therapist, comes in.”
“Mmm,” he said again, more thoughtfully this time. “My therapist is pretty ok, but I don’t know if sheknowsme enough to make that judgment. And my doctor definitely doesn’t; she sees me like once a year, normally.”
“Well, it’s your therapist’s job to get to know you well enough,” I pointed out. “You’ve only seen her twice so far. There’s time. And…” I paused to consider my next words carefully. “And ifthings get so bad that there’s not time anymore, you need to trust yourself enough to call her. Or me. Somebody. And tell them that.”
