Page 33 of Chemistry: The Chemist

“The water. It’s returned.”

“Never left.”

“It’s your paranoia.”

“Was it ever paranoia?” Sighing, I ran a hand down my face. “Or preparation.”

“For what, Chem?”

“Shit, if I knew I wouldn’t be worried, yeah?”

Before speaking again, he released a long breath. “You’re fucking contagious.”

“Am I or do you just aspire to be like your big brother.”

“Fuck you, again.”

“It’s starting to feel like incest, Malachi. Anna is available. Why me?”

There was ruffling in the background before an angelic tone tickled my eardrums.

“Chemistry,” my sister-in-love sang.

It was four in the fucking morning and far too early for the sweetness in her voice but that was to be expected. She was as bland as she was blissful. She was as calm as she was chipper. She was as poised as she was pert.

“Hello, Anna.”

“I can feel your frown all these miles away. What’s bothering you?”

Silence toyed the line. God had been gracious to Malachi, blessing him with a woman like Anna. She was everything our mother once was, it seemed.

Her gentleness didn’t overshadow her grit. She was equal parts of them both, but it preceded the grime that Malachi buried within her. She’d been polished anew. Traces that she’d stumbled out of the same neighborhood as Malachi were erased.

Her hands were clean. Her heart was cleaner. My brother had designed a world for her that forbade her from lifting a finger or dirtying her manicured nails. She was put up. And well.

“Worry me.”

I felt the ends of my lips curl upward as I dipped my head. How they did that so effortlessly would forever haunt me.

Fucking girls, man. I scratched the top of my head and sat forward in my seat, ready to worry her as she’d asked.

Roulette. Rather. Anna. I could never forget Anna. I wasn’t sure if she was working for Malachi or simply gifted enough to pull things from me that were meant to remain hidden.

“Richie is dying.” I clicked my tongue with a shake of the head, still not believing it to be true.

“Oh, Chemistry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s life, Anna. You live and then you die.”

“Yes, bu–”

“There are hardly any buts. One day I’ll go. One day you’ll go.”

Quickly, she responded, “Yes, I know my time is coming. We all do.”

“So, no sympathy for a soldier, baby.”

She quieted, recalling words we spoke often as boys. It was our way of declining sympathy from strangers and those close to us for the deaths of our mother and Maurice. That shit was useless to us. It wouldn’t ease our pain or bring either of them back.

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