Klempner

What's the obsession with potatoes?

I called her Potato Face when she was a kid.

What does she look like now?

Jenny was no looker at that age…

… But she matured. Bloomed.

Juliana... Never the same twice.

I scratch at my beard. I’ve never liked facial hair in hot climates, but I don’t have a choice right now. Even so, the flourishing colony of lice that has stowed aboard adds an extra edge of irritation.

Lice…

Where the fuck did they come from?

Can rat lice live on humans?

Having a fucking good go at it…

I catch one, squeezing the revolting thing between my fingernails. It bursts with a Pop!

Only another 999 to go…

*****

The boredom’s the worst. Endless hours. Endless days and nights. I’ve no idea how long.

The only breaks in the monotony are Juliana’s visits: just long enough to sit, eat something at me, toss a potato at me.

No, not Juliana: Solana.

Why's she so obsessed with the name?

How many names have I used over the years? Worn like a suit of clothes to be discarded when the weather changes and something different is needed.

I’ve never been defined by my name.

But she sees it differently…

Something skritches and I jerk a look sidelong

It’s a rat…

Just a rat…

faced down gunmen, soldiers,

It’s just a rat…

openings, more scratching. And a nose pokes

you gaze long enough into an abyss,

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped

*****

you know what Stockholm syndrome

over her eyes. She takes something from her lunchbox, unwrapping one of

kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner

saying you're getting

But there's a reverse condition. It's

“So?”

your only

off the small round cake, dropping back into the napkin and she dabs

you keep coming

pauses in her chewing, mouth hanging a little

do you keep coming? If all you wanted was to watch me rot, you have your camera there.” I jerk my

I assume you do want me

me a bag of potatoes and come once a week. Or even, once a month. But,

“Am I your only friend, Sola? Is

her head, giggling. “So, you're my

daughter you had slated as a sex-slave when she was a kid? That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The

arms, sits back in her seat,

eyes, I keep my voice mild. “Did I say otherwise? I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever really changes?” I raise my gaze

“Solana…” she hisses.

of it dropping just this

heel, she

the discarded meal from

camera. It hardly matters. My attention

from the corner. And I have

eaten anything

For how long?

no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time is out

I had

then another, I

the wrong way and suddenly I’m no longer eating, but

meal, I barf it up, where it plops in a saliva-coated mess

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