By Jess Gallerie
browsing for a new lower L5 disc, we catch each other’s tired eyes as a mistaken love you! spills from another customer’s mouth, directed at the woman behind the front desk. Maybe the customer meant to say thank you. The front desk woman who is I-shaped—beautifully upright—doesn’t respond. We stifle our laughter while thumbing through a catalog of bones, and you mouth something to me that I don’t understand. We’re here to pick out spinal discs like tiles for a kitchen backsplash. I want to renovate my life. I want a full cord reconstruction. I secretly hope to improve my communication skills. The underwater sounds of an MRI machine thump overhead, a reminder that we could all drown tomorrow. Saltwater dribbles down my chin when I try asking if the C7 comes in more colors. You smile and nod and pretend to follow along. Somehow, wordlessly, we decide on a beautiful and expensive L3 lumbar. I feel new for a moment, but my parting words to the front desk woman still come out gurgled and wrong—they sound a lot like love you! when what I meant to say was thank you and love my new spine.
Jess Gallerie is a writer from New York, living in South Florida. More of their short fiction is published or forthcoming in Bodega, Hunger Mountain Review, BRUISER, and HAD, among others. They’re currently writing a novel about a grocery store worker at the so-called end of the world.