At 3am, two nights before her double mastectomy, my twin sister dances on a table at the only bar in town. She twists like the straws we sucked chocolate shakes through when we were young, slips down, down, down, like she did when she showed me how to give a guy a blowjob. There is a sweetness woven into the filth of this bar, and I wonder if she’s holding onto that. Holding onto it before everything becomes antiseptic and bleach.
Last call isn’t a thing here. Booze is served until you leave or pass out. My sister and I slouch against a jukebox that’s been fed so many quarters it’ll play AC/DC well into next week. A disco ball casts glitter across my sister’s chest. She is exhausted, has been exhausted for months, but we are having a night. That’s what she said when I said it’d be better to stay in and rest: fuck that, let’s go and have a night, goddammit.
When I was born, a deep hemangioma protruded from my chest like a third breast. Its center was the same color as the beets our dad canned every summer. I used to worry my sister would grow only one breast, that I had stolen the other from her in the womb. Now I am torn between guilt and relief that we split the breasts the way we did.
Tonight, my sister pokes at her left breast with the olive pick from my half-drained martini. Softly at first, then harder.
She’s wearing a low-cut shirt and the pick depresses her skin in a matching deep vee before piercing through. We both inhale when her blood pools at its point. I’m taken with how it resembles the blood that spilled from her knees when we were kids, by the thought that her disease may have made her blood different somehow. Darker, maybe. Thicker. Rancid.
She thrusts the pick with force again and it sinks much deeper this time.
Stop, I say, grabbing her hand. It’s shaking. Her whole body is shaking.
Do you remember the time you fell out of the tree and bit a hole through your tongue? she asks.
Do you remember how mum ran out and thought you were dying because you were winded and couldn’t tell her where the blood was coming from?
I nod again.
Do you remember what that was like?
Being winded? I ask.
Looking at someone who thought you were dying.
I shake my head.
It’s the worst, she says. The absolute worst.
I look at her and she smiles.
Yup, just like that.
For the record, I don’t think you’re dying, I say, but part of me knows that’s not true.
Did you think you were dying? she asks.
I shake my head. I just wanted to get back up that goddamn tree.
Exactly, she says.
Jennifer Todhunter’s stories have appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Necessary Fiction, CHEAP POP, and elsewhere. She was named to Wigleaf’s Top 50 Very Short Fictions 2018, and is the Editor-in-Chief of Pidgeonholes. Find her at www.foxbane.ca or @JenTod_.