PS: I Hate You

by Lauren Connolly

Florence has a single folded piece of paper in her hand. She flips it back and forth, as if searching for something. “All it says is”—she holds it up, her mouth twisted in a haughty grimace—“Thanks for the years of therapy.”

Is this what death feels like? I hope so. I hope Josh didn’t hurt at the end. Didn’t fear. I hope he saw it as his next adventure.

I’m not a hugger. Can’t remember a time that I was. I prefer the unemotional touch of a doctor during my yearly check-up to a spur-of-the-moment embrace from a friend. I know it’s strange. It’s not that I’m repulsed by the touch of someone else. I hugged Mrs. Perry because I knew that she liked hugs and uses them to say hello. I hugged Adam to shield him from his brother’s wrath. But they don’t comfort me. I have no instinctual urge to press my body against another’s. And when I’m prompted to, the act feels like…an act.

Ah, discomfort covered by sarcasm. My old friend.