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Drops Of Rain. |
| Written by Nunyo Bidness | |
| Friday, 14 March 2008 | |
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Share it:      Daniel sits down at a desk and turns the lamp on. It's a glow, not much more, enough to write by. When you know what you have to say, you don't need to see it on the paper. I just turned onto Higuera Street after walking Cedar for a few miles when they hit me, I told the woman. She was wrapping rubber bands, circled back onto themselves, and scotch taping a section of gauze to the cut on my leg. It wasn't as bad as she thought. It had just been bleeding for awhile. The woman was nice to me. Older, married women tend to be. It's the single ones that would leave you sprawled out on their lawn and turn the soap opera volume up. Her husband was outside, checking for anything that was lost in the scuffle. "I wouldn't have thought a bat could cut like this," the woman said. “It's not that bad,” I tell her, getting up and standing like a broken fence. "Would you like anything? I haven't cooked dinner yet, but I was just about to make soup." The husband came back in with empty hands. "You probably shouldn't eat,” she continued, “How about something to drink? Water or juice or soda?" The husband shook his head and opened a cabinet next to the red couch. It was a nice place. The chairs matched the couch, and the floor was a white with some life in it. It was easy to take in, except for the pictures, paintings, whatever they called them at Target, hanging over the couch and through the hallway. A vodka bottle came out of the cabinet. "All I have," the husband says. "A drink will do the pain some good if it's still there. I used to think of myself as some kind of bartender. Mind if I mix it?" “Thanks. I don't mind as long as it's heavy,” I said. The letter was to his mother. The words were anxious to fall into sentences. It was easier to write when it wasn't for yourself. It was in black pen. The woman wanted to take me to the hospital, but I was against it and the husband convinced her that it was up to me. It wasn't hurting as badly but I decided to oblige the woman and let them give me a ride home. We pulled in front of my complex near the back entrance, farther away from my room but closer to the complex public bathroom. I told them they were very nice and that I appreciated their concern. "I think you might have been hit on the head and just not remember it. It takes longer for the head to swell up," the woman said. "Do you live with anyone?" I shook my head and got out, thank you’s and goodbye’s exchanged. They drove off slowly until I passed the wall that separated the pool from the walkway and put me out of sight, and I heard the engine rev and the brakes kick as they saw the stop sign that nobody sees. Clouds blanketed the sky but the wind was dying and the rain was dead. I limped into the bathroom and held myself over the sink. My throat burned. The last shaky period dotted the last shaky sentence and the pen rolled off the desk. The lamp was still glowing, not much more, just enough to write by. This one page was worth years. The window was open and it wasn't snowing outside. His shirt was black, but not dark enough to hide the shivers that the cold was only half-responsible for. Daniel made it to the bathroom before he started puking. The shake in his fingers flushed with the rest. He washed his mouth out and laid on his bed. It was a queen that sagged like a hammock in the middle, but the sides were still stiff and he picked the one that hugged the wall. His stomach churned. The phone rang. This guy. Way too much, all the time. Goes and goes and goes. You call him, he doesn’t pick up the phone. You talk to him, he doesn’t shut his mouth. Daniel’s sweet. He’s really sweet. Maybe too sweet. He’s just always going so fast, to himself. I’d hate to see him with a real problem, Sarah thought. The machine picked up. Sarah hung up and went out into the walkway and lit a cigarette. Her neighbors door wasn’t open like it usually was. The black iron rod handrail was stained with ash in spots. She smoked like she was gnawing the last fringes of meat off a bone. It’s a nice night. I wish it was like this more often. It rains too much here. I guess it does feel better when it isn’t raining though. Beautiful night. It really is. She couldn’t tell the time with the moon like she could with the sun. The telephone inside was ugly, but Sarah’s concern for it fused with the smoke, trapped in the filter with the last drag, and threw it onto the patch of grass below her that followed the walkway through the complex, passing the pool and the bathrooms before getting to the other way out where she usually parked. Copyright 2008 Nunyo Bidness |
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| Last Updated ( Friday, 14 March 2008 ) |
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