“I’ve got a present for you,” she said. “But it’s in the car so let me run out and get it.”
“I’ll go out with you,” I said, not wanting to let that slender, beautiful body leave my sight.
“No, no, you stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“But it’s raining.”
“Well then I’ll just have to worry, now won’t I?”
She smiled at me and walked out of the room. I could hear her bare feet along the wooden floor to the front door followed by the rumble of the walls with the door slamming shut. I reached over to my nightstand and opened the drawer. It was cluttered. Photos of us from two years ago, when my parents were still alive strewn over condoms, a glasses case, some wires going to electronics long forgotten, and bits of scrap paper I used to tempt myself into writing. Underneath all of this, I reached and grabbed the small orange bottle. It was almost empty.
On the side of the bottle was the mostly white label telling my mother how many times a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime that she was supposed to take the medication. Mexophallicstein of some other random shit was the name of it. I didn’t know what my mom had taken it for, and I didn’t care. She was dead, and these little off-white pills (only three left) made me feel better. Who knows what they fucking did.
The front door opened. The bare feet that, before, made a dry, sticky smack on the wooden floor made their way to my room with the calling of wetness and sliding. Did that make any sense? I don’t know. I had to hide the bottle back in my nightstand before she came in.
I slammed the drawer shut, the sound of the remaining two pills rocking inside the little orange bottle rocking inside the nightstand drawer. She came in holding a paper bag and smiling. She looked beautiful. I swallowed.
Created: Aug 09, 2012BroLinscott Document Media