my own syringe? I figure it’s safer lying. “I feel sanguine about that,” I say. “Sang what?” she asks. “Is that a type of pasta?” “No problem,” I say, crossing my bandaged left arm across my body. I take the syringe from Jackie, whose hand feels cold, clammy. I hold the syringe—still stuck into my arm, holding an empty vial attached to thin tubing—as if I grasped a rope from which hung a child being hauled from a mining cave-in. “You got it going! How’d you do that?” Jackie exclaims. “Is it going?” “Yes, I could’ve used your help all day.” “That’s what sanguine means,” I say. Jackie says, “You filled it up.” I exhale. “We done now?” “I wish,” she laughs. “Bill wants lots of tests.” “How many more vials?” “Four to go. But we’re rolling. You’re cranking it out now.” “Thanks for letting me know.” Jackie says, “Your cheeks look really white.” “They’re not sanguine,” I say. “You like pasta?” she asks. “At this rate, will I even make it home for dinner?” “You could always get a facial while you’re waiting,” Jackie says. “You prefer white wine or red?”
On the Right:
Traveling Inward by Cristina Iorga
Monoprint, Printmaking
65
