The Night Guest

by Hildur Knútsdóttir

“Can you describe your symptoms?” I clear my throat. “I’m just so … tired all the time.” “Not sleeping well?” “No, no. I fall asleep and even sleep through the night. But when I wake up, I feel exhausted. My legs, my arms…” As if they were evidence, I extend both arms. My hands dangle limply, and I have the bizarre impulse to shake them in the doctor’s face. But she nods. When I lower them, they drop into my lap like dead pieces of meat.

“Why don’t you just go eat some meat? We’re not meant to live on vegetables alone, you know,” says María, and takes a sip of white wine. Looking grave, they all nod. “But we don’t have true canines,” I point out. They stare at me over their wineglasses. “Carnivores all have canines.” They glance at each other, not sure what to do with me, and an embarrassing silence stretches between us.

“You’re really happy,” says Stína after lunch. There is an accusing note in her voice as she sits and stares at me suspiciously. I evaluate her in return, contemplating how awful that lipstick is for her skin tone and how she has too much foundation between her eyes. But then I decide to demonstrate generosity and kindness. Be a bigger person than usual. So, I smile and shrug.