“My stomach hurts,” Amelia told me, grimacing like a gargoyle. I don’t quite like the look of your face, I thought.
But I have pneumonia – my kindness reservoirs (yes, plural) are running, well, low. Still – “What’s wrong?” I asked, chiding myself a little internally. “I don’t know, I just have this really sticky poo, you know? The kind that feels like you’re never done pooing . . . hey Lola, are you coughing?”
“No,” I choked out, “I’m gagging. Remember how I told you my stomach’s off? As in, I’m nauseous, as in, good God why do I have to hear about that at work?” She stopped grimacing. “Well, it’s not like I was talking about something really gross, like you and ‘oh, poor Clary has mucus in his lungs’. Mucus is disgusting!”
And she turned quickly on her heel and left.