“Radishes?” I say.
I am at a Halloween party, pretending to be a normal person. The Illness, this time around, does allow me to do so some evenings although my joints often ache in the process.
“I thought that was just a made up word…”
MindReader’s arm immediately comes around me protectively while a group of friends burst out laughing.
“They’re a root vegetable,” he murmurs in my ear.
Stranger wanders over at this moment.
“Hello,” he says, gently. Not the kind “how are you feeling?” headtilts or the uneasy proffering of chairs and holding my arm as I walk even though I can actually walk just fine, but the gentle hello of someone who has been there before.
I avoid his gaze. It is one thing to reminisce about being sick in the smug way of people who got better and another thing entirely to discuss it while it is still rearing its acute ugliness day in day out.
(Yes, I’m in a novel writing mode).
“My housemate’s in Tesco,” Stranger says, “I’m going to ask him to get you some radishes!”
I laugh, presuming he’s joking although he does step out onto the balcony with his phone to his ear.
I turn, and MindReader is talking about law to a social worker friend of ours (um, when did we grow up?). I lean into his arm as I offer an anecdote about my work. It is acceptable, my life in miniature, at this moment in time.
MindReader taps me on the arm. “Our car parking is about to run out,” he says. I shrug. We have £2.20 between us because we are both too disorganised to remember to get cash out. “We’d better go,” I say, standing. It is 11pm anyway, and we do not want to anger my body.
I tap Stranger’s arm. “Bye,” I say, “we’re off.”
Another friend hugs me as Stranger replies and I see his mouth form a word through a cloud of her blonde hair. “Stay well,” he says.
I give him a Look over my friend’s shoulder, a cross between a smile and an eye roll. “Well, baby steps,” he says, “again.”
I try to convey my thanks with my eyes.
A man walks in and hands me some radishes, and we leave.
