Page 6 of The Last Kiss

“Next week? But what if…?”

He smiles, small and sensitive. “Julianna, you aren’t going to die before next week. Not unless you get hit by a bus.”

I stand, legs not connected to my body. The door to his office is a whole five steps away. I might not make it.

“Buses. I’ll watch out for them.”

“Make sure you do.” His bright-blue eyes twinkle. “If you’ve got any questions please ring. I’m not sure you’ve taken it all in.”

He might be right there, but I’m pretty sure I picked up the Cliff Notes.

Die. Twelve months.

Kaput.

Finito.

Morte.

I turn at the door, waiting for him to tell me it’s all been a sick joke.

“Next week,” he adds with a nod. “We’ve a lot to discuss.”

Do we though? Seems to me that all discussion is up.

“Next week,” I repeat automatically and then I slip out of the door. I keep my head down past his secretary who I can sense has her sympathetic blinkers pointed in my direction. I bet she knows. Bet they discussed it over tea while they dunked their biscuits.

My feet run down the hallways of the hospital, flying me around beds being pushed by porters, nurses in maroon, old people with sticks.

I run.

I run.

Until my lungs are pulling in icy air, dragging in the clouded sky.

Grey hangs above. Grey exists inside while cars zoom past, taxi’s weaving, lights on, lights off. People rushing, late for lunch, late for the office, late for life.

I stand in the middle of it all.

An island of solitude.

Normally after a visit I treat myself to lunch at the wine bar next to the hospital. It’s been somewhat amusing to have a posh bar with gastro food next to a building where people fight for their lives.

Joke’s not funny anymore.

Instead of the wine bar, I push down the side streets to the ominous Thames running at high tide, pulsing against drab banks, the colour of the water merged with the heavy sky.

On unsteady legs, I stumble to a bench, not even checking for pigeon shit, my shins bashing against the wooden slats as I fall backwards with a bang. And they all fell down.

Then I sit.

Stare.

Brain stuck on words I’ll never be able to unhear.

Final stage heart failure.

Twelve months at the most.