Yolk

by Mary H.K. Choi

My will to live leeches out of my skin and disappears into the atmosphere.

“I’d rather die than go home,” I say to no one in particular.

It genuinely pains me to rejoin this

conversation.

Nothing makes sense and it’s perfect.

and this is what she gets for her soul.

and it’s wild how June’s New York has nothing to do with mine.

Another part of me wonders if she’s secretly Republican.

If she brings out a cheese board and throws on smooth jazz as the lights dim, I’ll bolt.

I wonder if in a few years this will have been the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

My sister died, I imagine myself saying. My sister died. Well, my sister died.

I’ve often thought she was the missing link. The middle bit of the Venn diagram that made me and June make sense.

I imagine her being everything that June isn’t.

I don’t know where the humiliation ends and the rage begins or if those two sentiments are ever unlinked.

I can’t stand to be in my skin, be behind my eye holes.

Her last name is hyphenated, which to me means she’s rich, that she’s a horse girl with vacation homes.

I try not to think about how quickly things change.

As if the ground beneath my feet isn’t reliable.

We get it—you do art.

I find that the more I hide, the more presentable I am to the world.

I dislike that every unkind thought will now be tempered by this other feeling. Pity.

I stare out the window. What’s the point? The planet is on fire and everything is random.

I know that attending college is like praying to God. It’s not that you believe in it; you do it just in case. Because other people are.

It’s dazzling how disposable we all are.

I’ve only made her laugh out loud once, but I felt high all day.

To not know about Rihanna means she’s a total nihilist.

My sister died, I imagine myself saying to Gina in the future.

I finger a smooth porcelain butter dish with a lid. I love the romance of it. The decadence. Not only a dedicated place for butter but a roof over its head for protection. Who thinks of such things?

God, what I wouldn’t give for a four-hour documentary on her.

Oh, what’s up with that guy Chase Rice?

How perfect is that name for a white dude who only fucks with Asian chicks?”

“You’re going to be okay though, right?” I hear the warble in my voice. “What do you want me to say?”

I want her to tell me the day, the hour, and the exact minute when she’ll die. And I want her to go away so I can start preparing for it now with zero new memories because I have enough that I’ll miss.

The totality of death is inconceivable. It’s intolerable that you’re completely, utterly,

irrefutably alive, filled up with decades of inside jokes, goofy facial expressions, all the love of your family, and then not.

I’m determined to know how I’ll feel when June dies. I want to be able to see it, touch it, taste it so I can make sure I’ll survive.

Fuck. Juju is going to die.

Thinking about June as a baby makes my heart hurt.

If

they show you who they are, believe them.

This fucker doesn’t deserve bonus garlic.

Her eyes drop to my bags again. “Dude, did you only bring groceries?”

In New York. We live in the town with the best slices in the world and my sister is ordering Domino’s Pizza. If there were ever an indication that your sibling was unwell, it’s this.

I don’t tell her that what’s really fucked up is the elaborate ecosystem that’s going on in her refrigerator.

“Damn, the farmers probably christened each one.”

She starts laughing. “I don’t know why, but the ‘hi’ is the dumbest part.”

I miss my sister, I realize. I feel cheated out of the past four years. In the span of time we were becoming adults and I had so many questions, we barely spoke.

Honestly, what kind of psychopath sets read receipts on?

Is Patrick rude? Deranged? Did he do an OS update and something went weird? Jesus, forget it.

It’s why randomness is unacceptable. Why organized religion is a salve. It’s far more palatable to think of a divine order. Why conspiracies are easier to stomach over psychopaths making a rash decision that alters the course of history.