Kleinzeit

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There it was again, like a signal along a wire. A clear brilliant flash of pain from A to B. What was A? What was B? Kleinzeit didn’t want to know. His hypotenuse was on that side, he thought. Maybe not. He’d always been afraid to look at anatomical diagrams. Muscles, yes. Organs, no. Nothing but trouble to be expected from organs.

Flash. A to B again. His diapason felt hard and swollen. His scalp was dry and flaky. He put his face in front of the bathroom mirror.

I exist, said the mirror.

What about me? said Kleinzeit.

Not my problem, said the mirror.

Ha ha, laughed the hospital bed. It was nowhere near Kleinzeit, hadn’t ever seen him, was in another part of town altogether. Ha ha, laughed the hospital bed, and sang a little song that hummed through its iron limbs and chipped enamel. You and me, A to B. I have a pillow for you at my head, said the bed, I have a chart for you at my foot. Sister and her nurses listen through the night. Drip-feed tubes and bottles, oxygen cylinders and masks. Everything laid on. Don’t be a stranger.

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