Stephen sits beside me watching the show with his hand on my thigh as I sleep on my side, facing him. Stephen turns to me. Suddenly I sit up and start to inhale rapidly without exhaling. He strokes my hair. My arms rise straight out in front of me as Stephen snatches up the nurse’s alarm button. He stands over me, watching in horror as I slowly bend my hands to my face. I do this so leadenly that it looks like stop-motion animation. A nurse arrives. She speaks with Stephen, but the blaring television program masks their conversation. I don’t say a word. Stephen tries to explain what happened, miming choking to show her that I had stopped breathing. I extend my arms straight out again while he speaks, but my hands are bent downward at the wrists like those of aT. rex. Stephen gently places them back by my sides and rubs my shoulders, but my hands return to the extended position with that forty-five-degree angle at the wrist, as if held up by strings. I begin to move them in rapid, repetitive motions, up and down, up and down. Then I put my hands back to my face and lie down stiffly until an on-call neurologist arrives. I’ve been so stupid. I shouldn’t have answered calls from coworkers. They are secretly writing down what I’m saying. They know I cried in the newsroom. They’ll put that into my story.“New York PostReporter Unravels after Father Kills Wife.” generic accutane Buy priligy online
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