Baking Through It
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“Suicide,” I say, “is the easy way out.
“No,” she says, “the front door is the easy way out. This is a lot more difficult.”
I hear the wind down the phone I’m speaking to her on and I wonder where she is.
“Suicide is not the answer,” I continue.
“Who’s asking questions?!” she retorts, getting angry.
I’m cradling the phone on my shoulder as I stir the cake mix. Even my sister’s imminent suicide can’t stop cake.
“I think you need to talk to someone,” I say, trying to calm her down.
“Well I’m talking to you right now and all it’s doing it pissing me off,” she shouts, “I don’t think talking is doing a great deal of fucking good right now.”
Not that I’m an expert in suicide intervention, but I figure you need to strike a good bond with the person. Like hypnotists and conmen. Not that there’s much of a distinction between hypnotists and conmen.
I need to build a link, I’m thinking, something she can’t just