Lesson 1: Friendship in a Glass, Darkly

 The moment I say that I haven’t been feeling myself lately, I regret it. The words ricochet off the two green glass marbles staring at me from across the table, and dissipate into the balmy autumn evening. My friend Stella says nothing, just pulls another drag from her cigarette. The quiet chatter outside The Trunk, the corner bar on a dead-end street in the Old Town, settles between us.
I texted her the day before because I just wanted to grab a drink and hang out. But now the 18-year-old Glenfiddich gets to my head; I want to say things. I want to pull the cork off my bottled feelings and tell her that something is eating at my internals and my brain. I wish I could unzip the dry skin of my body to free myself from it. In the wee hours, when sleep evades me, I toss and turn until the old fracture of my right ankle begins to hurt. In the morning, the fog enveloping my tired brain deactivates me to the point that I am not sure who I am, why I am here, and what I need to do.
I used to have a centered will and ambition right in the middle of my stomach. Now only my heart palpitations echo in the growing pit.
“At least you don’t have cancer,” Stella says and looks away.
It isn’t just the brutal hot flash that chokes me and burns my face and neck until my scalp itches. It is the smoke from her cigarette that makes my eyes tear up. Then silence hangs, and it’s lonelier than the bottom of an emptied glass.