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Show Motherlunge a novel 64 "She's washing her hands in there," he said, jerking his thumb toward the hallway bathroom. "She'll be there for a while. She just..." "Can't stop," I said. "I know. And do you know what that means?" He burped, swallowed. "You want the diagnostic code?" "It means she's headed back down," I said. "It means, my friend, that she won't, be your happy little travel pal much longer." Joseph shook his head. "Nah. She has social support structures now. She's eating better. She's taking ginseng." He sighed and sat up slowly, twisted his back to crack it again. "I think she's still taking ginseng...." He drifted back into the couch like an old soul, slowly transubstantiating into the cushions. For a while, we listened to the sound of the water running in the bathroom. "She's going to get really down again," I said again, unnecessarily. "Reduce, reuse, recycle." "Right oh," Joseph said. "I've been down myself. Down, down, down." His eyes were half-shut by now. I looked at my fellow alumnus for a moment, then got up from the couch and went to lock the front door, turning off lights as I went. At the top of the stairs, Pavia's door was closed with no crack of light coming from beneath it. Dorothy came out of the bathroom. Her track pants swished once, twice, thrice as she toddled in the dark front hallway. "Over there," I said, pointing toward the living room. "Oh," said Dorothy. "Right." |