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was doing was dangerous but was going to enjoy it as long as humanly
possible. During those rare moments when she would get close to me,
all 1 could smell was a combination oflavender and paper ash, both
stimulating and sedative. Kind of like Agnes herself, actually.

"I guess I'll just have to drink it black. You want some cof-
fee, Ag?" We locked eyes for the first time that morning and my heart
broke, like it always did. A soft red color, like that of a sunburn, rimmed
the whites. They were puffy due to either insomnia or crying, or both.
She didn't talk much about herself except through these glances, but 1
could read her through them as easily as I could in those days when she
was still laughing and writing and experiencing. They killed me. They
showed me just how lost she was, an innocent bystander to this disease
that was ravaging her mind. She couldn't do anything; I couldn't do
anything. Except say something to the other, which we never did.

''I'll take a cup, yeah," Aggie said, nodding her head, flick-
ing the beige butt into the stagnant city air. "Especially if we have that
eggnog stuff."

I smiled while digging through the seemingly endless cabinet
ofcoffee bags. Aggie was a big supporter of limited-time offers, especial-
lywhen it came to seasonally topical hot beverages. Pumpkin spice from
September 21 through Thanksgiving, eggnog or gingerbread from Black
Friday to Christmas, peppermint chip all the way up until Valentine's
Day, which has its own romantic raspberry mocha flavor. I think she
liked the tradition of it all. I loved watching her prepare the day before
the Great Palatal Shift, running out to Safeway for all of the different
creams and syrups. It was refreshing that morning to see she still cared
about one thing, as small as it may seem. Maybe holiday drinks would
save her. I would take whatever I could get.

"Speaking of holiday cheer:' I carefully started, throwing table-
spoonfuls of dark grounds into our secondhand Mr. Coffee, "I think it's
about time this old shack gets its very own Christmas tree."

I braced myself for her reaction. I could imagine it going many
ways, the most believable being her saying she was tired and could we
maybe do it another day? I had no doubt in my mind that she wasn't
actually exhausted; the girl rarely clocked in three hours of sleep a night,
just sat on the pilling floral couch, plowing through Joyce, Plath, and
Woolf like we were still undergrads. I once suggested she take a vacation,

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