My phone rings for the first time in months. It’s my ex-girlfriend.
“I’m sticky,” she says.
I think about this for a few seconds.
“How sticky?”
“Really sticky,” she says. “The stickiest I’ve ever been.”
“How did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I really just don’t … Can you come over?”
“I’m pretty comfortable right now. I’ve changed a lot since we were together. I sleep, like, twelve hours a day now. And I wear more comfortable clothes.”
“I really need your help.”
“The comfortable clothes … I don’t like to go outside in them.”
“I still live in the same building as you. All you have to do is take the elevator up two floors. It’s late. No one’ll see you.”
I think about this. I’m surprised she hasn’t moved in with somebody else. It’s been over a year.
“Pretty comfortable,” I say.
“Really sticky,” she says.
I sigh. “Give me a few minutes.”
“Do you still have the key?”
I don’t know if I do or not. I do not recall having thrown the key away in a fit of rage or giving it back in an act of kindness. “Are you unable to open the door?”
“I’m so sticky I can’t even get off the floor. I’m not doing well.”
I pause for a while, for effect. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“You will? You don’t know how relieved this makes me.”
I look for the key. The comfortable clothes make it a little easier.
I find the key in the corner of the bathroom. How do I know if this is the key? It’s something I should have used a couple times a day for a few years, but it’s not giving me familiar vibes. I decide it’s not the key to her apartment and throw it in the trash after bending it a lot.
I call her back.
“Are you on your way?” she says.
“No. I can’t find the key. I think I gave it back to you.”
“Do you hear that?” she says.
I don’t hear anything. “What is it?” I say.
“That’s me trying to get off the floor.”
I imagine her there. I’m glad I couldn’t find the key. Now, close to bedtime, the idea of taking my comfortable clothes out into the garbage-smelling hallway and up to her floor, and then doing whatever I had to do to make her less sticky feels exhausting. I can’t even imagine myself in that situation.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I need to get to bed.”
I hang up before she can protest and block her number.
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