No Sleep Till Wonderland
“She says something about Soylent Green is people. Don’t know why that information is important. I’m not hungry, and besides, everyone knows that.
I think I’m still dreaming, but I open my eyes, and it’s Rita, a local homeless woman who usually hangs out in the bank parking lot across from my office. Couple times a month, I share lunchtime pizza with her in the lot and talk old movies. She’s anywhere between thirty-five and a hundred and five years old and is a Charlton Heston devotee. Who isn’t?
She slaps my cheeks, smiles, an infectious smile even if her eyes disappear somewhere into the bag of skin that is her face, and then she takes off, leaves me alone.
I’m in a stretcher, low to the sidewalk, oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. These are important details that take some time to verify, not that I fully trust the verifier. The oxygen tastes better than the smoky film of vomit in my mouth.
I sit up and take off the mask. I lose a few beard hairs in the elastic strap. No pain, no gain.
Write Review:
User Reviews: