Matt Szymanowski
I swallow two Ritalins and see dark circles under my eyes in the reflection. Foam is forming and spilling from my mouth, splashing in the sink and getting on my jeans. The TV says the winds have pulled trees from the ground and flipped over cars, and roofs of houses have been torn off. They advise people to stay indoors if they can. There is too much danger outside in these harsh conditions, they say, and then a commercial comes on about ten dollar oil changes at Jiffy Lube. The branches of the tree outside the bathroom are swinging and whipping at the window and house so loud that my mom screams. In the reflection, my mom passes with a coffee mug in hand and a long coat on. She says this is the worst time to be remodeling and is complaining about the cold, about how the heater should work soon but the workers keep rescheduling because of the weather. Where is the remote? she yells. I can’t remember where I put the damn remote. The foam keeps collecting and spilling out of my mouth. I open my mouth wide and spit it all out so it splatters on the mirror and the sides of the sink and onto my stomach and in the foamy spit there are swirls of red and pink. Nate is smoking a joint while fitting his New York hat, looking in the full length mirror on the wall. He watches himself take a joint out of the drawer in his desk, light it first as he slowly puts his lips to it and begins to inhale so that the dry paper begins to crack and burn, the whole time closely looking at himself in the reflection, up and down. I take the joint and sit down on his chair and watch him watch himself. He’s got on tight, faded, dark blue jeans and a slim black shirt and an army jacket over his shirt. He folds his pants over his shoes, the black Cons. From down the hall the hum of the refrigerator becomes louder.
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