“Nope,” I say, picking away the edges of the label
until it just says, “Ass.”
“You used to be the one pushing me. Up at the
crack…”
Butt Crack, I think, and something like a smile
turns the corners of my mouth.
He continues, “…of dawn, putting ice down my
shirt to get me out of my sleeping bag.”
I rub my hand through the sparse hair that’s grown
over thick itchy scars. "Not interested anymore.”
I meet his eyes, and we hold the gaze for a
moment, then I smile, my robot smile. Can he tell it’s
phony?
He pats me on the back when he leaves and says,
“Well, Don, good to see you.” Somehow, I doubt that. He
leaves without a backward look.
*
*
*
The doctor calls. “Remember me?”
I smile. His voice is like grade-A maple syrup, the
type I pour over the pancakes I eat on Sundays. More
refined than I remember.
45