Beagin

The truth was, Greta only felt “normal” for one week out of every month. The week before her period: rage, lust, and what felt like clarity. The week of: cramping, fatigue, self-pity. The week after: mind-numbing depression. That left one week of feeling “okay” and “like herself,” but sometimes she wondered if it was the only week in which she wasn’t herself, if the other weeks were the real thing, the real her. At any rate, her reactions to events depended on where she was in the cycle, except she never kept track of the cycle, so she never knew where the fuck she was.

Greta admitted that her mother had been an addict, too. Her drug of choice: terrible news

After hearing her whole story, which had taken ten weeks to tell, the shrink diagnosed her with emotional detachment disorder, which seemed like a stretch to Greta, who preferred to think of it as “poise” on a bad day, “grace” on a good one, and, when she was feeling full of herself, “serenity.”

so she was forbidden to talk shit about Om’s clients. Not that she wanted to—she’d always been less of a shit-talker and more of a shit-thinker,

gave her a sorrowful look. “You’re uncomfortable with compliments about your appearance.”

“Me and everyone else,” Greta said.

“Actually, people around here love to be told they’re beautiful.”

“What kind of sluts?” Greta asked.

“All stripes,” Sabine said. “Sluts for nature, sluts for antiques, sluts for astrology. River sluts, real estate sluts, regular sluts. In general, I’d say there’s not a lot of shame in this town.”

As they approached the next intersection, an old man stepped into the street and tried hailing them like a taxi. He looked disheveled and near death, but he had a sharp whistle. Sabine ignored him completely and rolled through a stop sign.

“That man seemed desperate for your attention,” Greta said. “I think he’s waiting for you to pull over.”

“That’s my father,” Sabine said, and stepped on the gas. “He just wants a cigarette.”

Yes, people age horribly. They suffer strokes. Their bodies and brains fall apart. But the male ego? Firmly intact until the bitter end.

“One of you guys have a cig, by any chance?” she asked.

“Pahdon?” Stacy said.

“A cigarette,” Greta said.

“A cansa stick?” Mark said.

“I prefer ‘stick of joy,’ ” Greta said.

“Well, but I have cansa,” Mark said. “In my lungs. Stage three.”

“Mahk,” Stacy said. “Don’t staht.”

Mark shrugged. “Just bein honest.”

“Sorry,” Greta mumbled. “I quit last week. Never mind.”

You always seemed afraid of antiques. Is that why you’re not haunting me?