by Rose Perez
But it tastes.
So.
Damn.
Good.
Wavy specters of heat wrap their fingers around Theodore's neck.
The thirst returns with a sweet vengeance, cementing Theodore’s throat with globs of sugar. He takes a sip.
Gulp…
Gulp…
Gulp…
Theodore crushes the cup and tosses it over his shoulder.
He whistles as his feet tap along the burning blacktop; throat coated with a lemony mucous. An occasional swallow unclogs Theodore’s throat.
…But the thirst always returns—the desire for water kisses his chapped lips.
He huffs and puffs, dragging his feet, even as a cramp bites Theodore.
Nothing Theodore hasn’t felt before. He recalls accomplishing a ten minute mile in gym class three years in a row, all of which, he ran with a dagger jammed into his side.
Motivation evaporates and Theodore collapses.
He gurgles and burps while a lemony aroma rises from the depths of his stomach. Steam dances off Theodore's scalp as tiny pieces of his fleshy identity swirl upward toward the clouds.
A tear slimes down Theodore’s face and oozes his mouth; the taste of lemons excites the desire for just one more sip.
Theodore melts into an oasis of flavored goo. And it tastes like lemons.
The little girls hold hands while they skip along the concrete snake’s back. They orbit around the sugary oasis as they sing:
“La La— a dead man—a dead man—La La—pick him up—sip him up.”
One girl holds the crystal pitcher as the other grips a wooden ladle. She dips it into the sugary oasis; pieces of Theodore float along whirling eddies. Biological grease fades toward the edge of the sugary oasis, and then dissolves into an opaque elixir.
The little girl glides the crystal pitcher along the surface; its interior swallows what’s left of Theodore. They kick their knees high as he splashes upon the concrete snake’s back.
“La La— a dead man—a dead man—La La—pick him up—sip him up.”
The end…
…or is it?
You survived.
Warm sunlight bleeds through your window while the things that go bump in the night retreat into their dark hovels…the places light can never banish. They're all around us.
Underneath a bed…
The depths of a couch…
Disembodied whispers fill the air, but daylight deafens our senses and outshines the dim glow of the truth: dark matter surrounds us all.