We used to read pornography. Now it was the Horchow Collection.
— Now promise me.
— Ok.
— You promise?
— Yeah, I promise.
— Promise.
— I just said, I promise! What...
— That's three times you promised.
If I didn't say anything, people assumed the worst. They cried harder. I cried harder.
— We are gonna split up the week, ok? You take lymphoma and tuberculosis.
— You take tuberculosis. My smoking doesn't go over at all.
— Ok. Good. Fine. Testicular cancer should be no contest, ok.
— Technically, I have more right to be there than you. You still have your balls.
— You are kidding?
— I don't know. Am I?
[the narrator pulls a loose tooth out of his mouth]
— Fuck.
— Hey, even the Mona Lisa's falling apart.
— I got this dress at a thrift store for one dollar.
— It was worth every penny.
— It's a bridesmaid's dress. Someone loved it intensely for one day, then tossed it. Like a Christmas tree — so special, then, bam, it's on the side of the road with tinsel still clinging to it. Like a sex crime victim, underwear inside out, bound with electrical tape.
Single-serving sugar and cream. Single pat of butter. The microwave cordon bleu hobby Kit. Shampoo-conditioner combos. Sample-package mouthwash. Tiny bars of soap. The people I meet on each flight... They're single-serving friends. Between takeoff and landing, we have our time together. That's all we get.
— You are a faker. You are not dying.
— Sorry?
We all started seeing things differently. Everywhere we went, we were sizing things up.