A Five-Minute Life

“Yeah, we have.”

“Were we friends?” she asked. “I think so. You’re the only one who treated me like I was still here.”

“Because you were.”

Her small hand tightened on my arm and she buried her face in my shoulder for a second, a little nuzzle.

We came to a bench and sat next to each other. Insects buzzed in the tall grasses and the wisps of clouds streaked the perfect blue sky. I could see the delicate curve of her neck, disappearing down into the collar of her shirt. It was perfect, too.

“How did you know that I was there?” she asked. “Even the doctors thought I was a lost cause.”

I shrugged.

“Don’t shrug,” she said. “Your thoughts aren’t inconsequential.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I said that before, didn’t I? Wow, déjà vu on steroids.”

“You said it to me the first time we met,” I said. “We were in the foyer, looking at a painting of a bunch of fruit.”

“A bunch of fruit,” Thea said with a laugh. “I remember. Was that when you knew I was still here?”

“Lots of things added up. You were like a bright light in a dark room,” I said slowly. “It didn’t seem possible you were only as deep as a few minutes. Then I saw your word chains and I knew I was right.”

“My dad used to say I could light up any room.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Did you know they were gone?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t tell me. No one told me. And I kept asking and asking…”

“We were ordered n-n-not to.”

Shit.

She frowned, studying me. “Are you cold?”

“I have a stutter. It comes out when I’m stressed. Or pissed off.”

Recognition lit up the sky blue of her eyes. “That’s right. I remember.”

I stiffened. The Thea of Five Minutes didn’t mind the stutter. But the Thea of Real Life…?

You don’t know her at all, Doris said. Introduce her to your worst quality…

“Are you stressed now?” Thea asked.

“A little. Thinking about everything you’re trying to process. Paranoid I’ll say the wrong thing. Or that I won’t be able to say anything that’s worth hearing.”

Thea pondered this, then nodded. “Holy crap, I’m tired.” She threaded her arm into mine and rested her head on my shoulder. “Anyway, big deal, you have a stutter. I have brain damage.”

“Show off.”

She slid her cheek along my sleeve to peer up at me. “You’re just jealous. My pity parties are way more epic than yours.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked. “Mine has a DJ that plays nothing but ‘Everybody Hurts’ on repeat.”

“Mine has brownies,” she said, “…with nuts in them.”

I chuckled. “You win.”

“I don’t care if you have a stutter, just don’t go ever go quiet on me, Jimmy.”