‘Goodbye,’ I say to the woman behind the white desk.
‘Until next time,’ she says, and smiles.
In my hand I’m holding two chocolate cakes, which I convince myself must be an indication of my enhanced status at the plasma centre.
When I come out onto the street, I knead my inner arm and have to stop for a moment. I’ve been giving plasma almost every week, and have noticed how much weaker and paler I’ve become lately. Going to the gym has become a real struggle, and it is taking me longer to climb stairs. The other day, the old lady on the third floor went up the stairs faster than me. But I tell myself it’s a small price to pay for saving the world and having enough cash to buy the fancy cheese at Billa.
I look at the clock and see it’s only half four. It’s a bit too early to go home yet, and there aren’t any exhibitions or films on that I want to see. Then I suddenly remember seeing an optician in the ninth district advertising free sight tests, and I immediately start walking there.
But just before I walk into the optician’s I stop short. How many sight tests can I actually do? How many hearing tests? How much plasma can I give and how many times can I reorganise my books to fill the time? Is this how I want to live, until I die? I stand there for a long time with my hand on the door, until a bald man in a white lab coat waves at me to come in. I shake my head and walk away.