Downtown is crowded even though most of the businesses are permanently closed. Almost everyone is on their phone and we get bumped into a lot. No one says excuse me. A man with one ear hisses at me. Eventually we find a restaurant that’s actually open. Maybe it’s some kind of pop-up. I don’t see a name for it but there’s a sign in the window that says “We speshulize in food!” The exclamation point relieves a lot of my anxiety.
I reach to open the door and a man that smells like death says, “You’re gonna go in there?” He’s a little aggressive about it.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling the door open and letting Amanda enter.
“It’s your funeral,” the guy says before walking away in his cloud of stench.
“He’s probably just jealous,” Amanda says when I join her in the very low-lit restaurant.
Nobody has any money to buy anything anymore, if they can even find a place to buy it from. We’re only here because it’s some kind of anniversary—we can’t remember what for—and I sold my pinkie toe to someone on the dark web to afford it.
“Have a seat wherever,” the teenage girl behind the register says.
Amanda, nervous after giving the place a once-over, says quietly to me, “Do you think it’s okay?”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say.
I’m not sure it is at all.
The girl behind the register waits until we’re seated and begins walking toward us. A man is yelling loudly from what I assume is the kitchen area. He’s not yelling words. It sounds more like screams of terror.
“Would you like something to drink?” the hostess/server says.
“I’ll just have water,” I say.
She looks at Amanda, who nods and says she’ll have the same.
“Normal water … or with ice?”
I’ve heard iceless, uncarbonated water described as flat, still, or sometimes even tap. I’ve never heard it described as normal. I’m intrigued.
“Ooh,” Amanda says. “That’s probably better for my sensitive teeth.”
“Yeah,” I say. Half of my teeth are rotting too. “I’ll go with the normal.”
“Normal water for me too.”
The server looks ecstatic.
“I’ll be right back,” she says.
I look at the table. “Guess this place is menu free.”
“Well,” Amanda says, “I’m not super hungry anyway. I think that infection’s making me nauseous.”
I’m not sure which infection she’s talking about. I’m starving.
“I probably should have thrown up before I came. That usually makes me feel a little better.”
“If you want, I can take you home.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s our night out. Celebrating … something!”
The server returns with two small paper cups of water, the kind they sometimes bring you in hospitals. She’s beaming.
“Two normal waters,” she announces before ceremoniously placing them on the table.
She’s gone before I can ask for a menu.
There’s more screaming coming from the back and now it sounds like things are being thrown.
“You know what?” I say, feeling wild.
“What?” Amanda says.
“We should dine and dash.”
“Like … now?”
“After we drink our water.”
“We didn’t have to come to dinner if you can’t pay.”
“I can pay. You’re not hungry. I just thought it would be something new. Kind of fun. That’s all.”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“They’re in back fighting or something. They’ll never catch us.”
Amanda shrugs and says, “I guess.”
I pick up my cup of water.
“You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
We pound the two cups of water, I stand up, grab Amanda’s hand and, together, we race for the front door. We burst from the restaurant into the milling groups of people and keep running. We don’t stop for a couple blocks when Amanda has a coughing fit followed by a vomiting session.
I’m laughing, feeling really energized.
“Whoo!” I belt. “That was some of the most normal water I’ve ever had. Makes me wonder if I’ve ever had normal water.”
“I don’t know,” Amanda says. “All I can taste is puke.”
“I feel like stealing a car, driving to the lake, maybe jumping in some normal water.”
“I don’t think the lake contains normal water. It glows at night.”
“I’m gonna steal that car.” I point to an idling car missing all its windows.
“There’s an old man sitting in it.”
“We’ll steal him too.”
The old man is very thin, so it isn’t hard to drag him out of the car and toss him into the backseat. He doesn’t fight back.
We drive to the lake.
Halfway there, Amanda’s teeth start falling out and she spits them out the window. Soon after, I feel mine loosening too. I just swallow them so I can keep them in my body a little while longer.
Eventually, the sky starts glowing a borealis green and I know we’re almost there. The lake comes into full view and I pull right up to the water’s edge.
I try to rouse the old man but he won’t wake up so I assume he’s dead. With Amanda’s help, I throw him into the lake.
“Guess it’s our car now,” I say.
Amanda collapses to the ground.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“I don’t know if I’m too hungry to stand up or if the bones in my legs have dissolved. I mean, I don’t feel hungry.”
Much like the teeth, I assume this is a side effect of the normal water. I can still feel it coursing through my veins, but I haven’t felt this alive in years.
While I still can, I drag Amanda up to the hood of the car before climbing up with her. My arm gives out while I’m getting situated and I collapse with my head on Amanda’s lap.
“I feel like my insides are liquefying,” she says.
“Normal water,” I say. “Let’s just enjoy it.”
We stare out into the phosphorescent green lake, its chemical smell wafting over us as sick, bloated insects make disturbing sounds.
The sun begins rising in the yellow sky.
Before my brain turns to water, I try to say “It really is beautiful, isn’t it?” but my mouth won’t work, so we stare into the sunrise and hope the normal water wears off soon.
