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Gwendolyn knew Sierra didn’t really want to know. Her coworker’s eyes were still flicking toward the break room door. It was just another social situation that Gwendolyn had to participate in, script and all. As Gwendolyn sat at the table, she wondered what would happen if she told Sierra the truth. Not because she wanted to share it with her, but more that Gwendolyn was tired of acting like the whole exchange wasn’t obtuse.
Why should we exchange pleasantries? I’m not excited to be here. She’s not even excited to be here.
“Oh, you know. Quiet dinner, read a book.”
It felt like pulling teeth to do it. Gwendolyn had censored so many of her inner thoughts for the sake of an agreeable work environment that it should have beeneasier. But something—maybe her mood, or the lack of sleep—was making it incredibly difficult. As Sierra inquired about the books that Gwendolyn liked to read, she found herself fumbling for an answer.
So, she made one up.
“Oh, it’s a small press book. It’s about a man who runs a creepy antique store—”
Stop thinking about that fucker, you weak-minded cunt!
“—and he’s like a serial killer and he murders a bunch of women.”
Serial killers. SERIAL KILLERS?!
The lie wasn’t even on par with her usual ones. Gwendolyn usually kept the topics—even the ones she was lying about—safe. Nothing political, nothing polarizing, just simple conversations about coffee versus tea, knitting versus crochet, and cats versus dogs. Dipping into true crime was like—
“Oh my God!” Sierra exclaimed, hand falling onto Gwendolyn’s with a heavy smack. “You like true crime, too?!”
Why?a small voice inside Gwendolyn’s head croaked in despair.
“Like, I know Washington is famous for having a lot of serial killers—”
Actually, Alaska has the most serial—
“—so it’s super cliche, right? But I can’t help it! It’s so fascinating, especially hearing about firsthand accounts. Hearing these stories straight from the victims—I don’t know how they do it! Same goes for the unexplained stuff! I really enjoy UFO’s, occult and stuff.”
As Sierra went on and on about her love of true crime—Gwendolyn was questioning the intention, given that Sierra had seen several documentariesfeaturing the same serial killer. Once was for knowledge, multiple times seemed excessive in her opinion, but—Sierra was still touching Gwendolyn’shand.
Gwendolyn only noticed because she could feel something. A tickling sensation at first, like the feeling of steam rising from a cup of freshly brewed coffee. A tickle soon turned into a rapid heat, almost as if Gwendolyn was holding a hot cup. She stared, perplexed as her skin grew clammy.
Was Sierra usually this warm? And more importantly, how had the other woman not noticed it yet? Before Gwendolyn could voice her discomfort, a sudden roll of nausea hit her. The scent of wine coolers hit her nose, causing her to gag.
You are not vomiting in this room!
Gwendolyn ripped her hand away, standing from her chair so abruptly it clattered behind her. Sierra looked surprised as Gwendolyn covered her mouth for a moment.
“Sorry,” she managed through her frazzled state. “I don’t feel good.”
“Oh, do you need to—”
Gwendolyn had already rushed out of the room before Sierra could finish her sentence.
Gwendolyn wasn’t the type to throw up.
Even in her sickly state, she somehow managed to keep the contents of her stomach inside. Gwendolyn spat outthe extra saliva that had built in her mouth into the toilet and flushed it once she was certain she wasn’t going to throw up anymore. She let out an exhausted exhale, rubbing her belly as she moved to the sink.
What was that? Was I having some kind of allergic reaction?
She wasn’t allergic to anything—at least that she was aware of. Her diet didn’t really deviate from the usual easy prep food she had eaten all week. And she never really considered herself terribly anxious, but…
Gwendolyn washed her hands and even flicked her face with the cold water. She dried her hands with the thin dry paper towels and dabbed gently at her face. She ignored the little heart mark on her lip. While her body slowly calmed down, Gwendolyn’s thoughts were anything but calm as she vacated the restroom. She tried to rationalize as she made her way to the front of the building, but by the time she clocked in at register three, Gwendolyn wasn’t sure shecould.
Nothing makes sense. Why doesn’t anything make sense?
For a moment, Gwendolyn contemplated the probability of her being terminally ill. It was an extreme thought, but most of the ones Gwendolyn had were like that. She was theoretically too young for memory issues. Gwendolyn kept arguing with herself as she checked out customer after customer, and only half listened while Catie talked about her college courses.