Dr. Stud

“Didi? Are you here?”

Picking my way carefully between stacked pizza boxes and nearly shredded twelve-packs of Corona, I make my way toward the sofa at the far end. A suspiciously person-shaped lump in the middle slumps toward the sound of my voice.

As the lump moves, the blanket slides away. Didi opens one bleary eye to look at me but it sort of slides back and forth in her eye socket, missing me by a few inches on either side as far as I can tell.

“Aw, hi, Joe Mama,” Didi giggles, lifting her head up and then letting it fall back to the cushion. “What’s up, Buttercup?”

I shake my head in dismay and disgust.

“Didi… You’re late for work.”

She groans and twists, flopping onto her back.

“Oh my God, no way,” she groans. “It’s morning already? I feel like I didn’t sleep at all.”

Tentatively I push the pizza box to the side of the coffee table, hoping to have a seat, but a small cockroach wriggles out from underneath it then darts back inside for safety.

“Gross!” I yell, my stomach heaving.

Immediately I realize that my stomach is heaving, for real. Sprinting, jumping like an Olympic track athlete, I find a path to the bathroom and lock myself inside.

Instantly I’m covered in sweat from head to toe, everything gray, freezing and heaving at the same time. My morning coffee swirls into the toilet bowl, leaving my throat raw and painful.

“JoJo, I need to get in there!” Didi yells, banging on the door.

Weakly, I shuffle toward the door and open it for her, then stand out the way. She limps past me on her leg cast with her arms held out for balance, eyes still half closed. My heart pounds as she does her business, paying no attention to me.

She flushes the toilet and hops to the sink on one foot, leaning heavily on it as she loads her toothbrush with Colgate.

After a couple minutes of deep breathing, my stomach starts to settle, leaving me feeling sticky and shaky. Didi spits out the toothpaste and looks at me in the mirror critically.

“You look like shit,” she observes.

“You don’t look so great yourself,” I reply meekly, gesturing at her scrawny form in just her underwear. “Have you been eating? You really don’t look okay.”

She shrugs one bony shoulder. “Mostly pizza,” she remarks before rinsing out her mouth.

“Ohhhh,” I groan, picturing the pizza box and cockroach all over again. If there were anything left inside me, I’m sure I would heave that up too.

“Seriously, Joe,” she starts again as she reaches to flip on the shower nozzle, “you’re like, all gray. What is wrong with you?”

I tried to organize my thoughts as she steps into the shower to wash off. She’s lucky she has really short hair. She could just take one of those gym class quality showers and be ready to go in ten minutes. With perfectly clear skin and those beautiful high cheekbones, all she needs is some pomade, an eyebrow pencil, and a flick of mascara to be ready.

I used to be jealous of her tomboy body, her strength, the efficiency of her good looks. But as she snaps the shower back off and reaches to grab a towel, I don’t think I am jealous anymore. She looks feral. Shrunken.

“Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” I ask her.

She scrubs her hair vigorously with the towel, then wraps it around her middle. That’s not her sense of modesty—she only does it for me.

“This from a woman who just threw up in my toilet?” she remarks snidely.

“Yeah, well…”

“I may have lost a little weight,” she shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. You’ve been gone… since I don’t know when. Weeks? Trying to get around with this cast is more complicated than it looks, Joe.”

Guilt washes through me. Am I being insensitive?

“Okay… but you’re not just eating pizza, right? Maybe a green vegetable here and there?”