text: What I feel right now is inharmonious. The whole reason I came to these groups in the first place is to feel included, and now dead people don't even want me. The advertisement for the support group held at the local church stated that the support group was for the "terminally ill." How was I supposed to know that suicide didn't fall under that category? Besides, I had a few colds in my life. I was no stranger to the stomach flu. Who cares if I stretched the word "terminal" out to include myself? I need as much help as any of them. You see when you're in a room full of people who would do anything for a couple of extra years of life, they don't take too kindly to those who are willing to throw them all away over a broken heart, and a gallon of bleach. But I can't help it! I'm as helpless as the rest of them. It's as if they think I asked for an inflamed case of depression paired with an overwhelmingly low self-esteem. Still, when it's my turn to speak the room is furnished with exaggerated sighs, and rolling eyes. More and more it seems like the only time I feel alone is when I'm surrounded by people. If it were just about them I wouldn't be here. In fact if it were anyone else, but her, I wouldn't be here. As luck would have it I happen to be kind of in love with Jenna Lane. And the truth is I haven't spoken to her yet, but when you're as emotionally unstable as me feelings like love come pretty easily. Even if I wasn't suffering from any mental anguish, I would still love her. How could I not? Here she is suffering from brain cancer and still finds time to make a fresh batch of cookies for everyone each week. Her smile makes me smile. Her laugh makes me laugh. She's not the prettiest girl I've seen in my life, but there is something about her that is so endlessly beautiful in the most refined sense of the word. She's the Mona Lisa, not exactly divine, but still a masterpiece. I had it bad for this girl, and tonight would be the night that she would find out. I just didn't know how to bring it up. Do I tell her point blank? Stand on a table in the center of the room, and proclaim my love for this girl I have yet to meet? Ride in on a white horse, whisk her away, and ride into the sunset together? And just as my imagination started to get carried away the opportunity presented itself. Martha Goldstein was in the middle of detailing her struggle in the late stages of ASL, when Jenna was started dosing off. Her head slowly lowered, her eyelids began to shut, and by the time it came to Benjamin Bloom and his battle with Huntington's disease Jenna Lane had fallen asleep on my shoulder. And what I feel right now is elated. By the time the group is over my shirt is soaked in saliva. People stand up to put away their chairs and grab a cup of coffee, while I stay seated with Jenna content with being her pillow. After she had woken up she apologized profusely for the falling asleep on me, and apologized even more when she saw the lake that she had created on my shoulder. I accepted every apology she gave me, and asked if I could walk her to her car. As we walked she told me about what school she had gone to, and how she had to take some time off after she got sick. She told me about her parents, and her little brother at home, and to be honest I didn't retain much of anything she said. I was too overjoyed that I, the suicidal self-loathing guy that not even people on the verge of death liked, had the opportunity to walk Jenna to her car. When we reached her vehicle I was disappointed by how short the walk was. We exchanged awkward goodbyes, and as I went for a hug she extended her hand. Jenna had stepped into her car, and slipped the key into the ignition before I had obtained enough courage to ask for her number. The words fell clumsily from my mouth but she didn't seem to notice. Instead she just smiled, fetched a piece of paper and pen from her purse, and wrote down seven of the world's most valuable numbers on the paper before handing it to me. This is how I met Jenna Lane. I know in theory you are supposed to wait a couple days before calling a girl, but with Jenna I had to contain myself from entering her number the minute I walked through the door. I believe I had made it approximately one day, ten hours, and forty-seven minutes before I finally caved. Before I called her I spent at least twenty minutes planning out what I was going to say, but the second she answered the phone my training departed from me. The sound of her voice escaping through the confines of my cell phone was simply euphoric. I fumbled my way through a couple minutes of aimless small talk, when Jenna finally stopped me. "Did you call me to ask me out?" she asks. And I recover just enough of myself to reply with a feeble "yes." "Well I would love to go on a date with you," she would say followed with something along the lines of, "that is of course if you're okay with dating a girl with an expiration date." And what I feel right now is lucky. I take Jenna to play mini golf, because that's what everyone who feels like a movie and dinner are too cliché does. I start to win, but decide to let her beat me because I want so badly for her to be happy with me. I buy ice cream afterwards, and when I dropped my cone face down on my lap she pretends not to notice, and offers to share hers. As I drive her home there is no room for silence. My car is filled with laughter and conversation the entire ride. I pulled up to her house, and walked her to her doorstep. We exchange awkward goodbyes, and as I extend my hand she goes in for a hug. She asks me when she can expect to see me next, and I say in the most confident voice I can muster, "How about next week?" She says she'd love that. I say I would too. She kisses me on the cheek before entering her house. Over the next couple of months I see Jenna Lane more and more. And over the next couple of months life doesn't seem so bad. It didn't matter what we did. We could watch paint dry for all I cared, but whenever I am with Jenna life just makes sense, the way I would imagine life to feel for people without suicidal tendencies, or brain cancer. It was a Tuesday when she told me to come over to her house. We had plans for a date Thursday night, but she called me out of the blue and requested that I come over. "I want you to have sex with me," she tells me. And being the smooth talking man I am I responded with a delayed "What?" "Sexual intercourse. You know what that is, yeah? Do you remember that expiration date we talked about? I don't know when it's coming, but it's coming soon. I just want to have sex. Is that so much to ask for?" She says comically. And the sad thing was it was true. She was dying. The light in her eyes had dimmed, her hair was slowly falling out, and her body had grown constantly smaller and smaller. In a perfect world I would have liked to wait. Planned it out, and done something romantic that may or may not have involved candles and rose petals, and maybe some fireworks, but who was I do deny a girl her dying wish? We fuck. At least that's what it feels like. Nothing more nothing less. I pray that she's a virgin, and wonder if she loves me or if this is just for sport. Because the truth is I'm kind of madly in love with her. What I want her to do is make a mistake, because perfection comes so naturally to her. I want her to be flawed. I want her to be vulnerable. I want her love me the way I love her, even though I know she can't. There are empty spaces in everyone's lives. I'd like to think that we try the best we can to make sure those places are filled. But no matter hard you try there are going to be those moments that leave you feeling empty. There's that pretty girl at the coffee shop that you wanted to talk to, but didn't. That trip you've always wanted to take, but never booked the flight. The paths of our lives are paved with missed opportunities, and hearts that we never had the chance to break. Jenna understood this. She had accepted her fate. She knew that soon she would be nothing more than a corpse rotting in the ground. She had no time for love, or petty crushes. What she needed was a friend. Someone to share these experiences with. She wasn't heartless. Jenna was just trying to make sure she didn't miss anything, before she was gone. And what I feel right now is cheated. Because all of this is an illusion. The walk to the car, the date, the sex all of these the fabric of my imagination. Everything but the saliva. The saliva drips through my shirt, and I can't help but wonder if it's a side effect of brain cancer. Hyper active salivation glands. As soon as Kathy Green wraps up her anecdote about her fight against AIDS Jenna is awoken. Still she profusely apologizes, and I still accept her apologies. She offers to pay me for a new shirt, but I tell her it's an old shirt. That I don't care about it anyways. After everything is taken down I help Jenna carry the platter in which she brought cookies on to her car, and the conversation stays light and general. The weather has been nice. School is fine. As she's packing the platter and leftover cookies into her trunk, I ask her what she's doing that night, if maybe she would like to go see a movie with me. "My boyfriend and I are actually going to play mini-golf tonight," is what she tells me. "Maybe some other time." "Sure, maybe next time," I say closing the trunk of her car for her. And what I feel right now is broken. We exchange awkward goodbyes. As I extend my hand she extends hers, and as we're standing there in the parking lot shaking hands she asks me what my name is.