She runs a hand through what’s left of her red hair, dozens of strands coming loose, clinging to her fingers.

– Fuck. Fucking hell.

I look at the old lady on the other side of the tiny room, reading her Women’s Wear Daily, sucking down her own chemo, head rolled up in a turban, trying to ignore Evie’s curses, wondering how much longer she’s going to have to stay in this room before they find her another. Just like the two others before her.

– Fucking, fuck, fuck. Hair. My goddamn hair.

– Babe.

– My hair, Joe.

– I know.

– Do I got to lose my hair?-They said it’ll grow back.

She shakes her hand over the edge of the bed, the strands of bright red floating free.

– Fuck them. They said the vinblastine would help. They said the mouth ulcers would stop after the first couple treatments. They said fewer than one in ten had constipation. They said my white count was plenty high to start the chemo. They said not to worry about the anemia, we’d just do more transfusions. They said I was a healthy girl and properly treated HIV didn’t have to become AIDS at all. Fuck them and what they say. They know shit.

She waves at the old lady.

– Hey, I look like I got no AIDS to you, lady? What’d they tell you? What line of shit they feed you before they started in?

The old lady has the magazine out of her lap and in front of her face, blocking Evie out; blocking out the bright purple tumors, the patchy hair, the graying teeth.

– Babe.

– What? Am I making a scene? Am I embarrassing you, Joe? Don’t want to be seen with me? All you gotta do is go.

I stand, bend and put my mouth against hers.

She kisses back for a moment, then moves away.

– Don’t.

I lay a fingertip on one of the sores that rim her mouth.

– Hurts?

– No. It’s just. It’s so gross. I’m so gross. I’m a fucking monster.

– Baby, you’re not even close.

And I kiss her again.