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

It’s just a rat…

more scratching. And a nose

into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back

Who said that?

Nietzsche?

Depressing bastard…

the abyss comes equipped with teeth and whiskers. I come equipped with fists and feet. Between us, we settle

*****

know

her lunchbox, unwrapping one of her usual dainties from

kidnap or hostage situation, the prisoner forms an attachment to

saying you're getting attached

I have her attention. “… But there's a reverse condition. It's called Lima syndrome, where

“So?”

I your

A flake of chocolate cracks off the

you

mouth hanging

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

want me to feed you? We can always change that

potatoes and come once a week. Or

simply regarding me. I continue. “Am I your only friend, Sola? Is that it? You've murdered

giggling. “So, you're my friend

That middle-aged hooker? You've not changed, Larry. I can see right through you. The same heartless bastard that shipped me out to

crosses her arms, sits back in her seat, arches her brows. “I am making you

I'm not claiming to have changed. Who ever

“Solana…” she hisses.

working, she says no more. Instead, she stands, the lunchbox tumbling from her lap. The contents spill and scatter over the rancid concrete, some of it dropping just this side of that painted line,

on her heel, she stalks

to know what's coming. Launching myself at the fallen food, ignoring the jab of pain in my ankle as the chain snaps taut, I snatch up the discarded meal from the filthy concrete, scrabbling to grab broken fragments of meat in one

camera. It hardly matters. My attention

is almost untouched, only a single bite taken from the corner. And I

not eaten anything

For how long?

I’ve no idea. Weeks? Months? My sense of time

I had

mouthful of empanada, then another, I ram the food into my

and suddenly I’m

it up, where it plops in a

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