Page 30 of While I’m Still Here

“How generous of you.”

“Four now.”

That shuts him up.

Mostly.

Then I kiss him again, and before I know it I’m straddling him, lowering myself onto him with a contented sigh. Losing myself in Colin might be one of my favourite things.

* * *

The Pink Folder of Doom is waiting for me downstairs.

I'd forgotten about it.

Which is impressive considering it contains detailed information regarding the attempted assassination currently taking place inside my left breast, but apparently sex is an excellent filing system for traumatic memories.

Cancer? Pop that in a drawer.

Colin Fletcher naked? PRIORITY FUCKING MAIL.

By half past eight, Colin has made tea and toast while I sit at the kitchen table wearing his T-shirt because mine appears to have disappeared somewhere between the sofa and the bedroom last night. I suspect stairs were involved. Possibly a wall.

Not relevant.

The folder sits between us. Pink. Obviously. I glare at it over the rim of my mug. “Do you think breast cancer would be less successful if we stopped giving it such good branding?”

Colin looks up from buttering toast. “Probably not.”

“Everything is pink.”

“You like pink.”

“Not anymore. Cancer has ruined it.”

“You can't let cancer ruin what once was your favourite colour.”

“It already wants my left tit, and that one was my favourite. Pink just seems like collateral damage at this point.”

“They haven't taken your breast yet,” Colin points out gently.

“It’s pre-emptive grieving, Fletcher. Keep up.”

Rather than argue, he slides a piece of toast across the table.

I take it.

I haven't told him I'm not hungry and he hasn't asked whether I am. He's simply put food in front of me because Colin knows that if he asks, I'll say no, whereas if he gives me toast, I'll eat it automatically.

Sneaky bastard.

I pull the folder towards me.

YOUR BREAST CANCER TREATMENT

I close it again. “No.”

Across the table, Colin pauses with his mug halfway to his mouth. “Strong start.”