She said, "Could you be more silly?" but I knew I'd done it unwillingly—and it was no bother, really. They were waving at me from the street under the street lamp, and I was dancing inside the darkened room; there was no reason for it except someone had breathed slightly my way—they'd been drinking Pepsi—and nobody ever breathes my way. There was something of a giant bug under the bed. I didn't yet know it was inside my stomach, much less in my hair.
"I'll clean it up tomorrow," I said with the duffel bag on my back. She wouldn't believe me because I'd accidentally peed on the ceiling. She was telling me there was no way I could look after myself if I kept acting that way, but I was already booking a flight to my bed. My new life starts either today, or tomorrow at noon.
"But will you be here for the game show at dinner?" she asked. "You know your uncle is playing on it tomorrow night five weeks ago, and he would hate it if you missed it." All the words I wanted to scream didn't find the way to my lips; they hadn't updated Google Maps.
"Of course I'll be here," I said. "Where else would I be?"
YOU ARE READING
Flights of Fancy
PoetryThere is another dimension beyond that which is known to fictional characters. A collection of short stories, poems, snippets, vignettes, and everything else that crosses my mind and has no place in my current publications, or is waiting in the wing...
