She makes a loud, childish sigh noise with grumbling from her throat. “Are you sure?”
“You’re never alone. It’s not your fault.”
She hears, “She wants to meet a boy who looks just like Elvis.”
The guy in front of her orders a Jones soda.
“Do you see,” she says. “How can I know for sure?”
“You know what to do.”
“That’s all you fucking say. What does that mean? How can I know for sure?”
She feels the urge to shrug her shoulders.
“Great. There is no ‘for sure’ is there? Fucking leap of faith bullshit. How many times do I have to jump?”
“Until it works.”
“Oh, that’s helpful, you fucking asshole. It’s just as encouraging as anything I’ve ever heard. How is this different?”
“Is that supposed to help?”
“Take a deep breath. There’s no pressure. This isn’t a test. Time is an illusion.”
“Ya, no big deal, right? Just another walk through the charnel grounds if I fuck up.”
“I don’t understand ‘fuck up’. What does that mean?”
A male steps forward. “She’s afraid of what they call failure.”
Clips of the woman’s past failures, and the impact they have had on her heart and subsequent decisions, play in their heads simultaneously.
“Yes, of course, but right ahead -” she points.
“She can’t see that.”
“No? Not even her?”
He shakes his head.