Page 89 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Pain scale.
Blood sugar.
A cut that needs three clean stitches and patience.
At ten the nausea hits like a bad wave.
There is no warning.
My mouth floods and my stomach pulls tight.
I make it to the staff bathroom in time.
It's fast and not dramatic, but the smell of antiseptic turns against me and I have to sit on the tile and count my breaths.
Rizzo finds me rinsing my mouth and passes me a sleeve of crackers.
“Keep one in your cheek,” she says. “Like the old movies.”
Her eyes study my face and then move on.
She does not say anything else.
I could hug her for that.
The rest of the morning is a negotiation between my stomach and my job.
I eat small bites of saltines and sip water.
I chart standing up because sitting makes the floor tilt.
Around noon, Rizzo taps my shoulder and says we are going outside.
I argue for a second and then I let her win.
The air hits my face and I feel human again.
She takes me to a bistro two blocks down where the tables are small and the servers move like they have a second life somewhere else.
We sit by the window.
She orders soup and I ask for toast.
The room smells like butter and rosemary.
It's fine until a server comes out with a plate from the next table and the truffle oil blooms in the air.
My stomach tightens so fast I have to stand.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Rizzo.
She nods and slides her soup toward me as if the bowl could hold me steady.
I make it to the sidewalk and bend over the planter until the sharp edge passes.
Footsteps stop beside me.
I don't need to look up to know who it is.
