The blood, the thinness of the blood, disturbs the feeling. It is too pink, and it runs too fast. It's like your blood is missing some crucial component. Some life force. Like you're running on unleaded gas.
In the morning, none of it will make any sense. You'll judge yourself and your lack of restraint. You'll accuse yourself of grand delusions. You will feel thin and sickly like your blood. You might even still taste it, along with the stale smoke and the recriminations....the frantic search for recollection.
You'll do it again. That's the stupidest part of the whole thing. You can't wait to do it again. You have to because the alternative is even worse.
But dog hair always tastes awful.
The alternative is even worse. Chilling.
ReplyDeleteAfter the phone call, Forty-four stilled a moment, looking out the window, absorbing the news. Michelle came in to see what was wrong. He told her about Thirty-nine, the funeral plans. The occasion where once again all living ex-presidents would be expected.
ReplyDelete“No disrespect meant to Jimmy,” she said, “but please tell me I don’t have to go.”
“You don’t have to go,” Forty-four responded. “I wish I didn’t have to go myself, but—”
“Then don’t.”
“Would that I could,” he said.
“You could if you wanted.”
He said, “You know why I can’t.” As long as that orange tin-pot clown show was anywhere near the White House, he would never rest easy.
“Uh, huh,” she said with a sardonic twist. “I know why you can’t. And you’ll be sitting right next to him.”
He grimaced. “Good god. That smell.”
She put her arms around his shoulders, smiled into his eyes. “Come to Hawaii with me. Tell them you got Covid.”
“I do feel a bit of a sniffle coming on.” He gave her a crooked grin, then it fell. “But I can’t.”
“Yeah. I get it,” she said, paused. “Jimmy was the last one, you know? The last to have a real post-presidency.”
He nodded, dropped his gaze. “Let’s hope one day that will change.”