Coming of Age

Soon after my mother died of cancer, I went to have a sore rib investigated. The nurse asked me nonchalantly if I was aware of the lump peeking from under my breast.

I am twenty. My mother was fifty-four. I am twenty. My mother was fifty-four. I am twenty.

Well, fuck you, life.

***

He sits me down, and orders us lemon cheesecake and coffee from the snooty waitress. We’re in the café that’s too sophisticated for students like us. How am I supposed to act? Is crying acceptable here? Might get told to leave for disorderly behaviour.

"I don't care if it was a cyst, hun,” I say, “or inflamed cartilage or what-the-hell-ever. Life has pulled out a new deck of cards and I don't know how to play."

"Of course not, you're what, twenty-three?"

"Twenty."

"Oh."

I’m twenty. I...am twenty. I am...twenty? "Don't worry, I know – numbers lose all meaning after a while."

My friend lets me push the topic away and glances at the bill. “Shall we split it?” he asks.

“Sure.”

I count each of my coins ridiculously carefully and let them lie against one another, like astral-tinted scales, as though I’m holding my days in my hand. I contemplate short-changing the entire place, the world, for poor service.