HEAL YOU | JENLISA

FOUR

JENNIE

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THE NEXT MORNING, I AWAKEN ON MY COUCH IN THE SAME exact position as when I collapsed last night, too tired to go the extra distance to my bedroom. I slept like a corpse, and I basically feel like one today. My head aches, and my muscles are sore. It’s like I have a hangover even though I missed the fun of actually getting drunk. Yesterday was too much. The looping hell of violin practice. Therapy. Dinner with Jihyong. The blow job. Our discussion.

Ugh, I’m in an open relationship now. I need to decide if I want to start dating. Groaning, I cover my face with a throw pillow. I should get up and start my day, but I have zero desire to do anything.

My purse vibrates against my thigh, and I plop a limp hand inside and half-heartedly fish for my phone. If my mom is yelling at me about something, I’m going to ignore her until lunchtime. I just can’t deal with her right now.

It turns out it’s not text messages from my mom. It’s a picture of Roseanne’s fluffy white Persian cat in a pink tutu. She’s only sent the picture to me because Jisoo is a late riser.

What do you think? she asks.

I laugh silently to myself as I reply, You take your life into your own hands every time you do that to her.

I know. I’m lucky I still have all my fingers. But she looks so pretty dressed up! she says.

She looks like she’s plotting your murder, I tell her.

But she’ll do it IN STYLE, she says, pausing briefly before she messages me again. How are you today?

I don’t have energy to go into it, so I keep things simple. I’m okay. Still processing. Thanks for asking.

I really do think you should try dating. I meant what I said about it helping to empower me, she says.

I’m considering it, I reply, and because I don’t want everything to be about me, I ask, Are you exhausted today? You were texting past midnight your time.

Yes, so tired. I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m supposed to hear back from the producers for that special project on TV this week.

I think you’re going to hear good news. You’re exactly who they need, I say.

I hope so! I really, really, really love this piece.

Envy sparks in my chest at her remark, and I dislike myself for it. I wish I still loved music like she does, that it brought me joy instead of this suffocating pressure. I will be happy for her if this opportunity pans out, though. I’m not a complete monster.

How are you doing on the Richter piece? Any progress? she asks.

I hate talking about my progress on the Richter piece—because there never is any—so I keep my reply short. Nope. But I’ll keep trying anyway. I should get to it.

Good luck! she says. One of these days, everything is going to flow right out of you. You’re just creatively constipated right now.

I don’t believe her, but I keep my reply light so that she doesn’t turn this into a long motivational chat. I hope so. Have a good one!

I don’t want to, but my bladder forces me to get up and plod to the bathroom. Bad instant coffee and half a bagel later, I drag myself to the secretary desk in the corner of my living room where my black instrument case resides. Rock sits next to the case, his painted smile aimed up at me, and I pet him once in greeting.

“You’re such a good boy,” I say. “The cutest rock I’ve ever seen.”

His smile doesn’t move, of course it doesn’t, but I can tell he’s pleased with the attention. If he had a tail, he wouldn’t be able to control his wag. I recognize that it’s possibly a bad sign that I’ve taken to anthropomorphizing a stone, but there’s something about his crooked eyes and mouth that gives him an extra splash of character. After a moment, I can tell he wants me to get to business, and I sigh and focus on the instrument case.