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It was 2 p.m., and she was running. She hated running. 1)Loathed it really. She felt like it was something only 2)masochists would truly enjoy. That’s what made it so appropriate. Today she was punishing herself.
Each foot slapped gracelessly down on the
3)treadmill, the rhythm of her feet echoing the
repetitive questions in her mind. Every 4)thump of her foot turned into Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? As in, “Why him? Why cancer? Why now?”
Occasionally, the whys would turn into hows. How? How? How? How? How? Except there was no variation to this question. It was always, “How can I continue?”
The only other 5)refrain was a simpler one. Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot. It had too many syllables for just one footfall, though, so instead it was slower, more measured. Id-i-ot. Id-i-ot. Id-i-ot.
That last day, he tried to comfort her. She hated to see him like that, pale and 6)wasted. The face looking at her, the 7)skeleton holding her hand, was not the man she married five years ago. He saw her 8)dismay, her fear. He knew that no matter what she said to his face, she was three steps short of panic. He had gotten sick too quickly, they had caught it too late. Three months was not long enough to adjust.
“Hey,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“A 9)priest, a 10)rabbi and a 11)minister walked into a bar...”
She rolled her eyes. “And?”
“And the 12)bartender said, what is this, a joke?”
She 13)snorted. “Just because you’re dying doesn’t mean you get a pity laugh, you know.”
“Not even a 14)snicker?” he asked.
“No.”
“You know what I could really go for?”
“A million bucks and another 50 years of life?”
“Very nice, Madam 15)Morbid. No, I could really go for some of those beef noodles from Shanghai Charlie’s. You know, the ones that are so tasty—how did you describe them? Something about 16)pores.”
“Every noodley注 pore is 17)impregnated with tasty 18)teriyaki deliciousness.”
His snort of laughter turned into a painful cough. “Yeah, that’s it. You have talent.”
“Being able to 19)spout a ridiculous 20)tagline for a menu item doesn’t mean I have talent,” she replied.
She didn’t want to leave him, but he was insistent that he wanted to eat. He hadn’t had an 21)appetite in so long, she finally 22)relented.
When she got back to the hospital, it was too late. A nurse cleaned the food off the floor, where the teriyaki
23)seeped across the 24)tile in a scene of noodle 25)carnage.
She held his hand, dry-eyed. She kissed him good-bye, dry-eyed. She signed where they told her to sign. She called the family. She packed up his things. Dry-eyed.
It was hot outside. 26)Muggy. 27)Stifling. Humid. The 28)cicadas 29)shrieked. She climbed in the car, put her head on the steering wheel, and sobbed for half an hour. Finally she stopped because her 30)hiccups were so bad she couldn’t breathe. Who was she without him? She had always followed him across the country and across the world. Who was she now? What was she? Where was home? What was she supposed to do?
A new word was pounding through her head now, in rhythm with her feet. Re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber.
His last words caught at her as she was nearly out the door to grab his noodley teriyaki deliciousness.
“Hey,” he said. “Remember—remember that all the best moments in life rarely happen when you’re alone. Don’t be alone, Madam Morbid.”
She was gasping now, pounding the treadmill hard, gracelessly, awkwardly. Two steps from falling right off the back.
Re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber.
时值午后两点，而她正在跑步。她一向对跑步深恶痛绝。讨厌极了。她觉得或许只有受虐狂才会真的喜欢它，正因如此，现在跑步再合适不过了。今天，她正在惩罚自己。
每一步都笨拙地踏在跑步机上，有节奏的脚步声在她的脑海中不断地回响着那几个问题。每一次的脚步声都变成了为什么？为什么？为什么？为什么？为什么？仿佛在问：“为什么是他？为什么是癌症？为什么是现在？”
时不时地，这些“为什么”还会变成“怎样”。怎样？怎样？怎样？怎样？怎样？只不过这次只有同一个问题。它一直都是：“我该怎样继续生活？”
唯一的另一个声音则简单多了。白痴，白痴，白痴，白痴。它的音节太多了，一步不够用，所以反而慢得多，均匀得多。白——痴，白——痴，白——痴。
在最后一天，他努力地安慰她。她不想看见那样的他，苍白而消瘦。那张正看着她的脸以及那副正握着她的手的骨架都不属于五年前她嫁的那个人。他看到了她的沮丧、她的恐惧。他知道，无论她当着他的面说了什么，实际上她离恐慌不过几步之遥。他的病来得太快，他们也发现得太晚了。短短的三个月时间根本不足以调整心情。
“嘿，”他说。
“怎么了？”
“一位牧师、一位拉比和一位教长走进了一间酒吧……”
她转了转眼睛。“然后呢？”
“然后那位酒保说，这算什么，一个笑话吗？”
她哼了一声。“就算你快死了，也不等于你就能博得同情的笑声，你知道。”
“连偷笑都没有？”他问道。
“没门儿。”
“你知道我真正想要什么吗？”
“一百万美元和多活五十年？”
“棒极了，病号太太。不，我真想尝一些上海查理家的牛肉面。你知道，那些面条真好吃——你是怎么形容的？毛孔什么的。”
“面条的每一个毛孔都浸透着可口的照烧酱的芬芳。”
他的扑哧一笑变成了一阵痛苦的咳嗽。“是的，就是这个。你真有天分。”
“能够对着一份菜单喷出一句可笑的宣传口号并不代表我有天分，”她回答道。
她不想离开他，但他坚持说他想吃面条。他已经很久没食欲了，所以她最终还是屈服了。
当她回到医院时，已经太迟了。一位护士清理了地板上的食物，面条撒了一地，照烧酱渗过了地板砖。她握着他的手，没有眼泪。她和他吻别，没有眼泪。她在他们让她签字的地方签了名。她打电话通知家人。她打包好他的物品。没有
眼泪。
屋外天气炎热。闷热。沉闷。潮湿。知了叫得声嘶力竭。她爬进车里，将头靠在方向盘上，抽泣了半个小时。最后，她停止了抽泣，因为她打嗝打得太厉害，无法呼吸。没有了他，她是谁？过去她总是跟随他一起周游全国，环游世界。现在她是谁？她是什么？家在哪里？她应该怎么做？
现在，一个新的词语随着脚步的节奏闯入了她的脑海。请——记——住。请——记——住。请——记——住。
她差不多要走出门口赶去买他的美味照烧面时，他的最后一句话引起了她的注意。
“嘿，”他说。“请记住——请记住，生命中所有最美好的时刻都很少发生在你独自一人的时候。不要一个人呆着，病号太太。”
她喘着粗气，狠狠地踏着跑步机，笨拙而不熟练，离摔得仰面朝天只有两步之遥。
请——记——住，请——记——住，请——记——住。
Each foot slapped gracelessly down on the
3)treadmill, the rhythm of her feet echoing the
repetitive questions in her mind. Every 4)thump of her foot turned into Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? As in, “Why him? Why cancer? Why now?”
Occasionally, the whys would turn into hows. How? How? How? How? How? Except there was no variation to this question. It was always, “How can I continue?”
The only other 5)refrain was a simpler one. Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot. It had too many syllables for just one footfall, though, so instead it was slower, more measured. Id-i-ot. Id-i-ot. Id-i-ot.
That last day, he tried to comfort her. She hated to see him like that, pale and 6)wasted. The face looking at her, the 7)skeleton holding her hand, was not the man she married five years ago. He saw her 8)dismay, her fear. He knew that no matter what she said to his face, she was three steps short of panic. He had gotten sick too quickly, they had caught it too late. Three months was not long enough to adjust.
“Hey,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“A 9)priest, a 10)rabbi and a 11)minister walked into a bar...”
She rolled her eyes. “And?”
“And the 12)bartender said, what is this, a joke?”
She 13)snorted. “Just because you’re dying doesn’t mean you get a pity laugh, you know.”
“Not even a 14)snicker?” he asked.
“No.”
“You know what I could really go for?”
“A million bucks and another 50 years of life?”
“Very nice, Madam 15)Morbid. No, I could really go for some of those beef noodles from Shanghai Charlie’s. You know, the ones that are so tasty—how did you describe them? Something about 16)pores.”
“Every noodley注 pore is 17)impregnated with tasty 18)teriyaki deliciousness.”
His snort of laughter turned into a painful cough. “Yeah, that’s it. You have talent.”
“Being able to 19)spout a ridiculous 20)tagline for a menu item doesn’t mean I have talent,” she replied.
She didn’t want to leave him, but he was insistent that he wanted to eat. He hadn’t had an 21)appetite in so long, she finally 22)relented.
When she got back to the hospital, it was too late. A nurse cleaned the food off the floor, where the teriyaki
23)seeped across the 24)tile in a scene of noodle 25)carnage.
She held his hand, dry-eyed. She kissed him good-bye, dry-eyed. She signed where they told her to sign. She called the family. She packed up his things. Dry-eyed.
It was hot outside. 26)Muggy. 27)Stifling. Humid. The 28)cicadas 29)shrieked. She climbed in the car, put her head on the steering wheel, and sobbed for half an hour. Finally she stopped because her 30)hiccups were so bad she couldn’t breathe. Who was she without him? She had always followed him across the country and across the world. Who was she now? What was she? Where was home? What was she supposed to do?
A new word was pounding through her head now, in rhythm with her feet. Re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber.
His last words caught at her as she was nearly out the door to grab his noodley teriyaki deliciousness.
“Hey,” he said. “Remember—remember that all the best moments in life rarely happen when you’re alone. Don’t be alone, Madam Morbid.”
She was gasping now, pounding the treadmill hard, gracelessly, awkwardly. Two steps from falling right off the back.
Re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber, re-mem-ber.
时值午后两点，而她正在跑步。她一向对跑步深恶痛绝。讨厌极了。她觉得或许只有受虐狂才会真的喜欢它，正因如此，现在跑步再合适不过了。今天，她正在惩罚自己。
每一步都笨拙地踏在跑步机上，有节奏的脚步声在她的脑海中不断地回响着那几个问题。每一次的脚步声都变成了为什么？为什么？为什么？为什么？为什么？仿佛在问：“为什么是他？为什么是癌症？为什么是现在？”
时不时地，这些“为什么”还会变成“怎样”。怎样？怎样？怎样？怎样？怎样？只不过这次只有同一个问题。它一直都是：“我该怎样继续生活？”
唯一的另一个声音则简单多了。白痴，白痴，白痴，白痴。它的音节太多了，一步不够用，所以反而慢得多，均匀得多。白——痴，白——痴，白——痴。
在最后一天，他努力地安慰她。她不想看见那样的他，苍白而消瘦。那张正看着她的脸以及那副正握着她的手的骨架都不属于五年前她嫁的那个人。他看到了她的沮丧、她的恐惧。他知道，无论她当着他的面说了什么，实际上她离恐慌不过几步之遥。他的病来得太快，他们也发现得太晚了。短短的三个月时间根本不足以调整心情。
“嘿，”他说。
“怎么了？”
“一位牧师、一位拉比和一位教长走进了一间酒吧……”
她转了转眼睛。“然后呢？”
“然后那位酒保说，这算什么，一个笑话吗？”
她哼了一声。“就算你快死了，也不等于你就能博得同情的笑声，你知道。”
“连偷笑都没有？”他问道。
“没门儿。”
“你知道我真正想要什么吗？”
“一百万美元和多活五十年？”
“棒极了，病号太太。不，我真想尝一些上海查理家的牛肉面。你知道，那些面条真好吃——你是怎么形容的？毛孔什么的。”
“面条的每一个毛孔都浸透着可口的照烧酱的芬芳。”
他的扑哧一笑变成了一阵痛苦的咳嗽。“是的，就是这个。你真有天分。”
“能够对着一份菜单喷出一句可笑的宣传口号并不代表我有天分，”她回答道。
她不想离开他，但他坚持说他想吃面条。他已经很久没食欲了，所以她最终还是屈服了。
当她回到医院时，已经太迟了。一位护士清理了地板上的食物，面条撒了一地，照烧酱渗过了地板砖。她握着他的手，没有眼泪。她和他吻别，没有眼泪。她在他们让她签字的地方签了名。她打电话通知家人。她打包好他的物品。没有
眼泪。
屋外天气炎热。闷热。沉闷。潮湿。知了叫得声嘶力竭。她爬进车里，将头靠在方向盘上，抽泣了半个小时。最后，她停止了抽泣，因为她打嗝打得太厉害，无法呼吸。没有了他，她是谁？过去她总是跟随他一起周游全国，环游世界。现在她是谁？她是什么？家在哪里？她应该怎么做？
现在，一个新的词语随着脚步的节奏闯入了她的脑海。请——记——住。请——记——住。请——记——住。
她差不多要走出门口赶去买他的美味照烧面时，他的最后一句话引起了她的注意。
“嘿，”他说。“请记住——请记住，生命中所有最美好的时刻都很少发生在你独自一人的时候。不要一个人呆着，病号太太。”
她喘着粗气，狠狠地踏着跑步机，笨拙而不熟练，离摔得仰面朝天只有两步之遥。
请——记——住，请——记——住，请——记——住。