Page 12 of Deja Who
“You’re a sad kiddo.”
“Almost always when I watch you eat,” she agreed, but was warmed by Cat’s sympathy. She might only have one friend, but Cat was a good one, not least because she looked homeless and wasn’t, seemed unbalanced and wasn’t, sounded indifferent and wasn’t. Leah liked dichotomy; Cat more or less defined the term.
“Speaking of eating,” the other woman began, “you don’t have to bring me lunch every day. I’ve got mon—”
“Shut up about giving me money, we’ve been over this.” In every lifetime, Cat died alone. In every lifetime, Leah had a roof over her head and never missed a meal. God was a lunatic who needed to be beaten to death. “Don’t talk about money again.”
“I’ll talk about what I like, this is a public park.”
“As long as it’s not about money.”
Cat just stared at her and masticated carrots and pudding.
“Another change of subject?” Leah suggested. The inviolable law of their friendship: either party could suggest or demand a subject change at any time.It’s like our version of a safe word, she thought, and had to smile.
“Quit leaving yourself mean notes.”
Leah shrugged. “I decline.”
“Or I won’t eat your carrots tomorrow and you can just worry about them being in your lunch all day.”
“...deal,” she finally said.Outwitted again by a woman who uses last year’s swimsuit as underwear.
“Ha! Sucker.”
They finished their meals in the closest thing to a comfortable silence Leah knew. That, too, could be considered weird or problematic if she thought about it.
So she didn’t.
