(Written for Day 4 of the Writing Rules Mini Project)
“It was a good day, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t kid with me, Charles. You’ve had that look on your face since lunch. Now, what is it?”
“It’s nothing.”
“You are a terrible liar, Charles.”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
“Yet? Yet? Where did you go at lunch?”
“I have to wait.”
“For what? Charles, my friend. After all I’ve done for you, you keep secrets from me?”
“I should tell my wife first.”
“Yes, you should, but I’m here now and you must get it off your chest.”
“My chest?”
“Yes, Charles.”
“My chest is just the thing.”
“So, you went to the doctor, I take it.”
“I can’t.”
“You think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been coughing, yes? Hacking up a lung between every sentence for months, now, Charles.”
“It may be nothing.”
“And I was the one who told you from the beginning, yes? Go to the doctor, Charles, I said. Listen to me. Go get yourself fixed up. So, you finally listened to your old pal, huh, Charles?”
“I should have listened to you earlier.”
“Ah.”
“It might not have gotten so bad.”
“It was bad.”
“The doctor says it’s bad.”
“Ah.”
“I should tell my wife.”
“But I’m here and she won’t be back until next weekend, yes?”
“Yes. I should call her.”
“No.”
“No. You’re right. Better to tell her in person. Better that she doesn’t worry now.”
“She’ll worry.”
“Are you worried, Louis?”
“Charles, you haven’t told me precisely what I should be worried about yet.”
“I know. I know. It’s—the cough.”
“As I said.”
“You were right.”
“I usually am.”
“I should listen to you more often.”
“But you won’t. Come now, Charles, where’s your spark?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. The cough?”
“The cough.”
“Well?”
“It’s some disease. I can’t remember the name of it exactly.”
“You can’t remember?”
“Some disease of the lungs. I got the impression even the doctor wasn’t quite sure. But he was very clear about what it meant.”
“No more talking? A shame, a shame.”
“No more breathing.”
“Ah.”
“I mean eventually. It’s progressive.”
“Progressive?”
“Yes.”
“Progressively worse, I take it? Not progressively better?”
“Progressively worse. Terminal.”
“Terminal?”
“Terminal.”
“Charles.”
“I don’t want pity. I just need to get through this…I need to get to work.”
“You need to rest. I’m sure of it. Charles, Charles.”
“No. Not yet.”
“How long did he give you?”
“Up to three years.”
“Three?”
“Yes.”
“Up to?”
“Yes.”
“Charles.”
“I know. I have so much to do. I have a lifetime to press into the next three years.”
“Overwork yourself and you won’t get three years. I know how these things work, Charles.”
“Funny, that’s what the doctor said.”
“Isn’t there anything they can do?”
“Not now. Not anymore.”
“Nothing experimental?”
“He suggested something to relieve the pain, but might decrease my expected time.”
“Ah.”
“I’m too young for this. But I can’t be angry. It can’t be helped. That’s what I keep telling myself. Just go on as if nothing’s the matter until it is.”
“Ah.”
“I still can’t quite believe it. Get me a drink, will you, Louis?”
“Should you?”
“What, drink? Who cares, Louis? Terminal, did you hear that part? Terminal.”
“Terminal. Yes. After everything that’s happened to you.”
“No pity, I said. It’s a waste of time.”
“Right.”
“Thanks.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers. You know, Louis, you can’t tell anyone about this.”
“Right.”
“Promise me.”
“Not even—”
“I’ll tell them all myself. I will. I promise you that. Now promise me.”
“I promise, Charles. But you better tell them soon. I’m not as good at keeping secrets as you.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you in the first place.”
“Smart man.”
“Me?”
“Heavens, Charles, you’re so brilliant and you don’t even know it. What a waste. A terrible waste. How can this be?”
“I know. I know.”
“Not something that can be helped.”
“That’s the nature of life. Comes and goes as it pleases.”
“I wish it wouldn’t.”
“You’re telling me.”