Free A Different Kind of Beauty by Alyssa Cooper Page A

back to the living room, I open the fridge and throw out the milk I brought him weeks ago, unopened and untouched. I check the cheese, a small slice of which is missing, the rest gone hard and covered in mould. Pulling open the vegetable crisper I find brown lettuce, blackened tomatoes, mouldy carrots. I dump the entire tray into the trash and rinse the rot into the sink. With numb hands, I restock the fridge with food that I know he will not eat.
    At least it will be here when his mother comes to visit. At least she won't have to worry about that.
    Silently, I check the freezer and the cupboards, reaching far into the back, even the drawer under the stove, which is hard to open without making a sound. I don’t find the bottles, as I know I won't. I don’t know where he hides his alcohol, and he'll never tell me. Jesse would never lie to me, but he's very good at avoiding the truth. I suspect he keeps it in the nightstand, or somewhere in his closet, but his bedroom is a place I have not been invited to share in a very long time.
    He's lounging on the couch when I wander back into the other room. His robe has fallen open, and I see his thin skin stretched over jutting rib bones. I watch his heart beat.
    Slipping into the bathroom without a word, I soak a washcloth in the sink. I carry it back to him and he wipes at his face, scouring away his night sweats. Tapping the corner of my own mouth, I show him the vomit he missed, and, embarrassed, he scrubs it away.
    I kick off my shoes and finally sit beside him on the couch. He folds the washcloth carefully and lays the square on the coffee table, making sure that it is centred on a coaster. He'll shower when I leave, although I know that sometimes it exhausts him to stand for so long. He will shower, and brush out his beautiful curls, and dress in loose jeans and a worn t-shirt, so if I come back after work, I'll almost be able to pretend nothing is wrong.
    Almost.
    I reach out and gently take his hand. I hold his palm without lacing our fingers.
    "How is it today?" I ask him.
    "It's okay." His voice is low and hoarse. He always speaks quietly in the morning, because his throat still aches from the vomiting he does at night. "It's not too bad."
    I lift his arm and drape it over my shoulders, laying my head on his shoulder. He is bonier every day it seems, but I can always find a place that I am comfortable. He smells like himself, the soft blend of Ivory soap and eucalyptus aftershave and an undertone of bitter sweet sweat. The smells of my youth.
    “Are you going to drink when I'm gone?”
    He shifts uncomfortably. I know that while I’m at work, he tries to drink lightly , just enough to get him through the day. Enough that he can get dressed and do his laundry, clean the apartment, even go out if he absolutely has to, without being plagued by his withdrawal. He keeps himself on that edge, so when I come to see him after work, he is rarely drunk, although I can always smell the alcohol on him.
    After I leave, after I go home for the night, that is when he loses himself. That is when I need to worry. There are so many ways he could hurt himself when I’m not here. He could cut himself in the kitchen. He could fall and hit his head. He could black out and choke.
    And of course, there is the cirrhosis on his liver he is always making worse. There are the swollen veins in his esophagus, a result of that failing organ, that tear and bleed when he pukes.
    I stay with him as late as I can when I come, hoping that if I'm around long enough, he’ll fall into his restless sleep and forget the alcohol. He tries not to drink when I’m here. He doesn't want me to watch what he is doing to himself.
    When he starts to sweat and shake, though, the withdrawal taking over, I lose my nerve. I can’t stay. I can’t watch his body rebel like that.
    “Well? Are you?”
    “I don’t know.” He crosses and uncrosses his thin legs, restless. “Maybe.”
    “Why?”
    “Just one of those