If the situation weren't so grave, Sarah might welcome the dawn of another dismal day with a bemused laugh. Last week, she privately began chemotherapy after putting it off for too long and for the first few days, it was tolerable. After that, it became a flood of familiar symptoms and if she hadn't known any better, she might have thought she were
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There was no denying the way Sarah looked, though, no shrugging off that feeling of impending doom. Of all the fucking things that could possibly kill this woman, it wasn't going to be a monster or a machine; it was going to be her own treacherous body.
"Come on," I prompted, my mouth pressed into a grim line as I reached for her shoulder. "I'm taking you home."
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"What about… fuck, I don't even know what this is." I opened a Tupperware container, gave the contents a spectulative sniff, and then looked back to Sarah. "I think it's seafood."
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"PB and J," I ejected, and pulled out a jar of preserves. "No fucking surprises."
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"Are you asking me or just sharing?" I asked, dubious about my ability to pull anything from the box that wasn't black and/or rude. If Sarah counted on me, she'd probably end up looking like Morticia Addams.
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There was a whole other level to it, an undeniable intimacy, but I wasn't going to bring that up if I didn't have to. I wasn't lying, I was shit at knowing what was fashionable, but there were just too many implications to me choosing something I would like.
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"Yeah," I replied, because I was at least status quo. I cut the sandwich sloppily in half and handed it over. "You ready now?"
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