its pathological

“Do you ever look up and notice the lights, how they seem lighter. A different color even?

“I notice that sometimes.”

“Daydreaming does that. Your eyes dilate.”

She watched me. What was her name again? Fuck I hate this game. Who’s gonna say it first?

 “What is a daydream?”

“Isn’t that the question.”

“Right? Sometimes I wonder if I lose myself too much in them. It’s gets a little… It’s a funny thing.”

“What’s your name, again?” She asked. Thank god.

“Oh, yeah. Simon. Sorry. I forgot yours.”

“Miranda.”

“Oh. Miranda. That’s nice. I’ve never known any Mirandas.”

“That’s a compliment.”

“Take it.”

“Done.”

There was an infantessimally infinite pause.

“So what…are…”

Another

“What are we doing here?”

“In so many words.”

“Waiting I guess.”

“Ah.”

I’m not in my clothing. It’s heavily washed, tight woven cotton. Pajamas. I’m wearing fucking pajamas.

“Why am I wearing fucking pajamas?”

“I don’t know. But you were about to tell me about the bomb.”

“Huh? Oh. I… What’s… Miranda.”

“Yeah?”

This doesn’t feel right. The walls become apparent. They apparently clash with the trite desert toned, Navajo type woven upholstery of the firm love seat I’m planted on.

There’s a squat fake mahogany toned desk that neither of us sit at. 

Clipboard

“You look like someone… Someone else.”

“I get that a lot.”

“From other patients?”

One of those infinite pauses.

“Just one of those faces.”

“I said patients. You glazed over that. So I’m a mental patient.”

“What year is this?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s nineteen eighty two.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“It’s twenty twelve. Who’s the president?”

“Sarah Palin.”

.

“Don’t fuck with crazy people, Miranda. That’s a terrifying thing to say.”

“What does Vetihver say?”

*

What? What do I say? 

She watches me. Her smug peering candied apple glare just glistening. Cunt.

She dressed for this. You should have seen her the first time we met. Miss Miranda the sociopath with a career path. It’s pathological. She doesn’t even know that she’s looking for me. She doesn’t even realize, but right now she does. Right now.

What do I say?

Do I tear the world apart, starting with the tables and chairs? 

I’m going to win.

Answer the fucking question Simon, and make it mean well.

.

I take a deep breath. And exhale.

“There’s no Vetihver. Not anymore, if there ever was.”

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