she’s almost run over by a motorcycle in barrow street. the body, an ugly, misshapen construct of fiery red impulses and the softness of regret, all coalescing in a deluge of fermented beans from the day’s lunch she’d had a poor, unsuspecting vought intern push down her throat. manhood’s a tumor: a cancerous, fatty parasite inviting itself to a mess-hall of muscle and teasing the battered body with arrhythmic heart palpitations. the remnants of his scolding ring in the long, far distance. decked? she didn’t recall. stacy kočova hardly recalled anything. at all. it’s, somehow, then and there, without reason or logic, that she observes some spare blood on the asphalt. the approaching, solemn-faced specimen who looked obstinately alive. a face and body that hardly looked like her own, which undoubtedly were her own, without having been there herself to witness it. “YES?” stacy turns, from the dust–barren street in which she still laid immobile, as if the greek chorus of his singing has been a mere tap on the shoulder. “DID YOU NEED ME FOR SOMETHING?” she looks around for the coffee she distantly recalls telling another white coat about grabbing in between dizzying shifts. the carton box from which the cappuccino came is nowhere in sight and neither are its condiments. she ponders, and ponders until the high ends of her forehead hurt, if she even did get one in the first place. the bleeding on the tear of her jeans’ stopped. it hadn’t hurt in the first place. “I KNOW THE AREA PRETTY WELL. ARE YOU LOST?” @testedsoul