The Delusions of Mary Jane

Candles. . .the smell of those candles burning was almost intoxicating. What was that? Lemons?

. . .Lemon cake?

No, I have it, lemon meringue pie. . .yeah, that was it lemon meringue pie.

But. . ?

What was that sound? A motor of some kind. . or a broken fan? No. . , wait. There’s a clanging sound. Glass. . ? What would make that kind of sound in a bedroom? With the slight breeze I’m feeling, it must be some type of ceiling fan. The candle doesn’t cast enough light for me to be able to see.

My mouth is so dry. . .’full of cotton’ as we used to say. Really wish I had a big old slug of Coke right now, but I’m afraid to get up. I don’t remember where I am.

How did I get here. . ? Where is here?

God! My heart is beating so fast! Why do I feel this way?

This way. . .? I’m not sure what I mean by this way. I mean, I’m lying her on a. . .
waterbed?. .

and I writing in a notebook while my mind is racing along at a hundred miles an hour. I mean, shit--I have to work in the morning and here it is 11:01 by my clock, of course my clock is set 13 minutes faster than all the rest because I’m always afraid I’ll be late.

And why do I obsess about being late? I mean fuck it, who really gives a shit if I’m late? Huh? Who really gives a shit? It’s no skin off nobody but me. I’m the one who’ll catch the flack--not anybody but me. Nobody else really gives a shit!

Nobody else really gives a shit. . .nobody else really gives a shit--nobody else really gives a shit.

Who gives a shit?

Nobody.

I’m in my own bedroom; the ceiling fan is whirring gently overhead. My favorite lemon meringue candle is burning. I am wide-awake, unable to sleep, on a work night. Life is too short.

© Bobbi Rightmyer