Yesterday, my best friend asked me to kill her.
Claire didn’t put it that way, of course. I mean, if she needed someone to kill her I’d be on the shortlist of people she asked. She knows that if terminal cancer came for her I’d sadly but willingly help her to the garage, start the engine, crank some Legendary Pink Dots on the stereo, and close the door behind me as I left. I would’ve married her ten years ago, but even while we were kids I understood that she just didn’t like boys that way. But together we’d repelled the neighborhood bully using the only language he understood, and that forms a bond you can’t break even over decades. She understands people without them saying a word. It’s part of what makes her a fantastic therapist.
And eventually I’d found my brilliant, beautiful Olivi
