Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Insomniac, Part 12

At 4:55 am, Harold sat at the edge of his bed and turned the reading lamp on.  He farted loud and long.  What the hell had he eaten?  It didn't even smell like him.  Harold wondered how people in nursing homes could share a room with a total stranger without being revolted by the smell of each other.  He hated how he had actually begun to smell like an old person.  He flossed his teeth.  He didn't eat any differently than he had before.  What the hell was that smell?

Harold didn't need to get up for an hour.  He'd stopped wondering why.  He knew the kind of day it would be, busy with a chance of falling asleep in a meeting. He got up on his feet.  They hurt. Why the hell did his feet hurt now? He hadn't been on them for a whole five hours. He looked at the way his toe nails had begun to look like claws.

He went into his bathroom and turned on the light, squinting as his eyes got used to the changes.  His image stared back at him.  The horseshoe of hair on his head, the furry man boobs, his sagging belly, limp penis.  It had been a while since he'd woken with a woodie.  Was that normal?

He missed his hair the most.  He'd tried shaving his head the way many men had done, but he had a large, lumpy head with a crease on the left side as if he was a brain tumor patient.  It was not a good look.  He envied Patrick Stewart. 

He turned on the shower and looked in the mirror as it steamed up.  Better.  He looked mysterious and suave in the fogged mirror.

"Oh, that's disgusting," Victoria said as she grabbed his razor from the sink and slammed the door shut.  That seemed to be all she ever said to him these days.  He thought about how, in forty years, she'd probably be sleeping with a man that looked like this. That was disgusting.

He stepped into the shower without testing the temperature of the shower. The confidence, he thought, and grinned. 

Thank you for listening, jules

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