This Fever-Dream Illness
I choked down a teaspoon of Promethazine, one Miraphen, two Advil, and a One-A-Day For Men, washed it all down with a Gray Goose, tonic and lime, then raced out the door, down the steps, and onto the street.
My breath slipped over my shoulder, behind me, and up into the night. It was the Thursday before Christmas. My head was spinning. My heart was full. All was uncertain.
My cell phone vibrated: a message.
“Dude, I guess it’s a little pathetic of me,” the voice said, “But you haven’t updated your Daily Journal in, like, two days. I’m a little concerned about this fever-dream illness of yours. Are you allright?”
I smiled, and walked on.
I’m all right.