Dear Life(7)

“You know, Prince William, this year’s ball drop was slightly anti-climatic. Is it just me or do you feel the same way?” I ask the deathly floating common carp. Peering over at him, I oddly wait for a response, conjuring one up in my head.

“Blub, blub, blub, I agree, Hollyn,” I say in a creepy bubbly fish voice.

I take in my surroundings: bags of chips scattered across my coffee table, pictures of celebrities torn out of magazines on the floor, a wet spot on the carpet from my air freshener binge, and Cheez-Doodle fingerprints scattered over my couch, almost like a leopard print.

This is what rock bottom must feel like.

Shaking my air freshener, realizing it’s finished, I let it roll out of my hand and across the carpet. Tears start to fill my eyes over the depleted aerosol can. Yup, this is one-hundred-percent rock bottom.

I wipe under my eye as the front door to my apartment flies open and my best friend, Amanda, pops through the entrance, her boyfriend, Matt, tagging closely behind.

“Happy New . . .” she pauses and then starts whipping her hand feverously in front of her nose. Beside her, Matt starts to cough and quickly pulls his vest over his face as a mask. “Oh my God,” Amanda complains. “Did a forest die in here?”

With a blasé attitude, I respond, “I got carried away with the air freshener.”

Sitting up, I take in their party garb. Amanda is in a tight-fitting sparkly dress that’s peeking through her long, black pea coat, and Matt is in his classic dark-wash jeans, button-up shirt, and vest. He’s shaking and blowing into his hands trying to calm the cold that is capturing the Colorado skies outside.

“I thought you two were going to a party,” I say, lying back down and sticking my hand in a chip bag, rifling around for crumbs.

“We were but it got lame.” Amanda walks into the living area and takes in the scene, her nose cringing from the disarray of my apartment. “You’re a pig, Hollyn.”

“Gee, thanks. Care to comment on the condition of my bush as well?”

“And I will be in the kitchen.” Matt quickly disappears where I can hear him rummaging around in my fridge.

“Your goldfish is dead,” Amanda points out.

I tear open the chip bag and start to lick the cheddar and ranch seasoning off the foil. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Do you have anything other than tabasco sauce and a lonely grapefruit in here?” Matt calls from the kitchen.

“No, but bring the tabasco sauce in here, I’m thirsty.”

“Yes, bring the tabasco sauce in here,” Amanda deadpans, her eyes judging me. “You can join Hollyn in licking her trash.”

Never wanting to be a terrible hostess, I hold out the pretzel bag to her and ask, “Want to down the salt at the bottom?”

“Do you really want tabasco sauce?” Matt asks, holding it out to me. I reach for it but Amanda quickly swats it away, the bottle rolling across the ground, joining the air freshener.

“She is not drinking tabasco sauce. For God’s sake. Hollyn, look at you.”

No need for a cursory glance, I know the appalling reflection I will see in the mirror. I’ve already established rock bottom once I started speaking for my fish. To take in my appearance all over again will be detrimental to my already shattered and bruised self-esteem.

“I’m good.” I wave Amanda off. I don’t want to be reminded.

Compassion and sympathy quickly take over Amanda’s once sarcastic attitude, warning me that what she’s going to say next is something I’m not going to like. Leaning forward, she clasps my knee and shakes her head. “No, Hollyn, you’re not good.”

“Let’s not do this,” I say, sitting up and dusting off my shirt that’s accumulated enough crumbs for a small colony of mice to have a Thanksgiving feast. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re never in the mood,” Amanda tosses back, her sympathy quickly evaporating into annoyance.

“You don’t catch me on good days.”

“Can you stop being sarcastic and actually talk about this?” I’ve seen Amanda frustrated with me before, but not like this.

“Uh, this is getting a little awkward for me,” Matt says, rocking on his heels. “I think I might grab the tabasco sauce and test my limits in the kitchen.” He goes to reach for it when Amanda snaps at him.

“Do not touch the sauce. This conversation involves you, too.”

“How does this conversation you relentlessly try to have with me involve Matt? It’s the same old thing, Amanda. You’re going to tell me that it’s been over a year and a half since my husband died, that I need to stop sulking, and move on with my life, that I need to go back to nursing school and finish my degree so I can stop waiting tables down at Chuck’s Italian Eatery. I’ve heard it before and I’m not interested.”

Every few weeks, Amanda tries to have a heart to heart with me about my life and how I can’t keep putting it on hold, how I need to learn to live again. Well, the three bags of chips, Cheez Doodles, and pretzels beg to differ. I’m living quite well, thank you.

Standing, Amanda adjusts her coat, looking more fidgety and angry than ever. And . . . are those tears forming in her eyes? I lean a little closer to get a better look just as she yanks a petite box out of her pocket.