2 #2
I only set foot outside today because Vega, sniffling and with big eyes like a shelter kitten hit by a truckload of sad, begs me: "Bring me throat lozenges, please. And tissues—the ones I’ve got look like churros.
" So I do my big-sister duty by five lousy minutes, throw on just enough not to scandalize the block: jeans, a hoodie, a battle ponytail, and sneakers. Fashion level: minus five. But it’ll do for crossing the neighborhood on a Sunday morning.
I spent the night getting my ass kicked by my own brain, dreaming of mailboxes that insulted me, lurking blondes spying from trash cans, and Ray transformed into a British butler serving me soup on a silver tray.
My skull’s about to pop, and I’m pretty sure Vega’s plague of snot and misery is invading me by osmosis.
I feel off—body flimsy, mood at doormat level, and my desire to step out the door at absolute zero.
I talk a big game, sure, but try saying no to the stinky human puppy sprawled on my couch. Not happening.
The neighborhood looks like a zombie movie today.
Sunday, international day of abandonment: the people with their lives together have vanished, and the only ones left are those of us who barely know what year it is.
And on top of that, October is sticking its snout in, that fucking cold sliding straight through my hoodie.
A few cafés are lifting their shutters; not a single shop shows signs of life. Two depressed unicorns roam the street: a grandpa with a next-gen shopping cart to drag oranges and ailments back from Lidl, and a woman hell-bent on walking a giant dog that pins me with a stare—just like its owner.
I shuffle down the sidewalk with my life battery at 2%, half unplugged from reality and pondering existential stuff like: do I die of the flu today, or do I suck it up, a martyr to chronic procrastination?
The big question also hits me: what if the mysterious blonde was just a product of my fever and delirium?
I mean, which is more likely—a movie-style lesbian stalker, or my imagination shooting a spin-off of my life?
I’m checking Vega’s list on my phone—when she writes errands, she turns into a foreman on inspection:
Vega: Throat lozenges ??
Big tissues ??
Honey
No mint, it wrecks me
If you come back without one of these
I’ll cry and curse you ??
I answer with a voice note while I sidestep a dog turd.
"Okay, you want a priest for last rites too, or should I just get you propolis and call it?"
She sends back an audio, coughing.
I’m about to step into the pharmacy like a civilized person and bam—the blonde with her sleek black car. Every hair on me stands up, even the tiny ones on my shins, and a massive shiver runs down my back.
I make a list of options: bolt, fake normal and go inside, or throw myself to the ground and stage an injured-pedestrian show so people circle up and the blonde has to go around. My life, forever skimming the ridiculous.
This already smells off. Maybe she’s one of those intense fans who corner you first and then ask for a selfie for Stories—my viral debut and farewell in one.
Having fans sounds cute until one locks eyes on you from the sidewalk and the fun evaporates.
And drama? I’m stocked; it’s my official cardio.
In the end I take the path of extreme maturity: I walk into the pharmacy with total-normal face, Malasana’s most paranoid idiot.
Inside I play it cool—ask for things I don’t even need: lozenges, candy, a thermometer; sure, throw in those dinosaur Band-Aids too, in case there’s a war.
I pay for the bag. I walk out doing that "nothing to see here" routine that, frankly, only the pharmacist and grandmas with cataracts would buy.
I breathe, turn my head side to side, scan corner to corner.
Nothing. No car. No blonde. Not a trace.
The Mission: Impossible theme glues itself to my brain and I tap the beat with my fingers, very discreet.
I pick up the pace; the bag thumps my leg like it’s carrying the head of my ex-caseworker from the group home.
I slip through the neighborhood’s back streets.
I ignore my phone. I don’t even stop to grade the sidewalk cafés on who’s rocking today’s grand-prize defeat. They can do the ranking without me.
My paranoia is in overdrive. I stick close to my own shadow and narrate my moves in an inner sportscaster voice: "Attention—Alaska turns, brakes, adjusts her bun, checks the window behind the lace curtain.
" Every little noise makes me jump. A scooter buzzes past. A lady with a walker shuffles by.
I whip my head so fast I can already see myself making an appointment with my PT.
And the weirdest part? Nothing happens. Quiet street. Me, revved up.
I get to the building and skip the buzzer—straight to the key.
I take the stairs two at a time, free cardio.
I'm breathing hard. My heart is racing, and my brain keeps looping the same dumb question: am I safe, or am I following the tutorial for getting myself killed on a Sunday?
Just in case, I smile at the imaginary camera on the landing and mutter my Sunday plan—blanket, a movie, zero drama—while in my head I'm already hiding under the bed until the storm passes, which might not even exist.