My Cardboard Balcony

Tender To The Touch by Belinda Roddie I hold my arm at an odd angle, to air out the infection. If I'm not careful, it'll grow wings and try to fly, and I'm too heavy for its festering voyage. Two shots of brandy is what the doctor recommends to ease the pain. The fever dreams, she says, are natural, until the people in it become shadows. Once that happens, she tells me it's time for the emergency room. Shadows are bad news. I stand under the shower spray, and I want to become one with the water, flowing effortlessly out to the bay where the foam turns green and the fish somehow still get bigger by the year. Father goes fishing sometimes by the rocky shore, wondering when everything will clear up. Not just my infection, mind you - everything. My illness, his career, Mother's alcoholism, Grandfather's psychosis, Grandmother's shame. The doctor predicted that I'd be able to move my arm fully again in two weeks. I keep a calendar ...

After speaking with Bentley in the office, I decided to relocate the conversation to the local pub, where the cute red-haired girl would be bartending that night. We continued our chat over tall steins of beer and a shot or two of whiskey, but nothing too fancy beyond that. The redhead walked over to me at one point to ask where I was from, due to my accent, and I felt my smile stiffen as I tried to find a proper way to answer her question.