sunday reverie of absinthe
Absence of the heart.
Absinth.
Absinth of the brain.
“There’s a package for you,” Yared’s voice was clear now. Yared, my roommate from Spain , stood over me as a still-life portrait, blocking the hot Caribbean sun. A package addressed to me laid ripped open in his hands. I didn’t mind that he opened it, I have nothing to hide from him. Nothing I knew about anyway. I knew that in Mexico “what’s mine is yours” is his culture.
“Looks interesting!” he noticed my eyes partially open and immediately switched on the blaring UV light.
“What time is it?” I groaned, not bothering to look at the red digits lying next to my bed.
“Ten,” Yared replied in his nasally, over-anxious squeak. “P.M.,” he added.
“What’s in the package?” I imagined, or even hoped, for white powder to leak out, spreading the A+ disease all over my dingy room. Possibly even to have it be the white pony. Of course, Yared and I would have to consume the evidence before the police burst down our door, following the trail.
“A letter,” he threw a yellow scrap of paper onto my head and continued, “a baby shoe, and, uh, looks like a comb, or something, man.”
“Who is this from?” The package had succeeded in its goal to retrieve all of my attention. I sat fully up in my floor-bed and lit a cigarette. I could feel my blonde mop fold into a disheveled mess as I ran my hand through it. A little greasy, not enough to shower.
“The package doesn’t say. It only says to a John Hunnick, and our address.” Yared threw the package at me and lost interest. “I’m going to have some huevos, man,” and he left the room, the same storm as he came in.
I fiddled around with the package for a while, deluding myself in reveries of a secret mission. Some anonymous damsel wanting me to protect her. Or it could be one of my friends. They like to pull elaborate yet unappealing pranks like this. Whatever it was, I couldn’t place my finger on it, nor could I settle a goose-bumped sprinkle tingle over my entire body.
to be continued....?
Absinth.
Absinth of the brain.
“There’s a package for you,” Yared’s voice was clear now. Yared, my roommate from Spain , stood over me as a still-life portrait, blocking the hot Caribbean sun. A package addressed to me laid ripped open in his hands. I didn’t mind that he opened it, I have nothing to hide from him. Nothing I knew about anyway. I knew that in Mexico “what’s mine is yours” is his culture.
“Looks interesting!” he noticed my eyes partially open and immediately switched on the blaring UV light.
“What time is it?” I groaned, not bothering to look at the red digits lying next to my bed.
“Ten,” Yared replied in his nasally, over-anxious squeak. “P.M.,” he added.
“What’s in the package?” I imagined, or even hoped, for white powder to leak out, spreading the A+ disease all over my dingy room. Possibly even to have it be the white pony. Of course, Yared and I would have to consume the evidence before the police burst down our door, following the trail.
“A letter,” he threw a yellow scrap of paper onto my head and continued, “a baby shoe, and, uh, looks like a comb, or something, man.”
“Who is this from?” The package had succeeded in its goal to retrieve all of my attention. I sat fully up in my floor-bed and lit a cigarette. I could feel my blonde mop fold into a disheveled mess as I ran my hand through it. A little greasy, not enough to shower.
“The package doesn’t say. It only says to a John Hunnick, and our address.” Yared threw the package at me and lost interest. “I’m going to have some huevos, man,” and he left the room, the same storm as he came in.
I fiddled around with the package for a while, deluding myself in reveries of a secret mission. Some anonymous damsel wanting me to protect her. Or it could be one of my friends. They like to pull elaborate yet unappealing pranks like this. Whatever it was, I couldn’t place my finger on it, nor could I settle a goose-bumped sprinkle tingle over my entire body.
to be continued....?