Aden

There's a cold war in bed. Fidget and I aren't talking for a bit, and she throws the blankets in frustration. I just curl over and try to sleep, before the allergies kick in again and I have to get up. It's about two hours before air stops reaching my lungs, and I get up to rectify the situation with some pharmaceutical magic.

Her frustration momentarily forgotten, she asks "Are you okay?" The next five minutes will tell me. Thankfully, pseudo-ephedrine hasn't lost it's punch, and within ten minutes, I'm able to breathe again. Senseless cats and burning weed be damned, I needed fresh air. Foggy weather and no moon out, it's just me and the midnight traffic.

I'm small, fading to insignificance, dragging this whole sordid arrangement with me. Politics, social engineering, it's a can of pre-fab contradictions, and I wish I could just put it down. But even if I try, I can always feel the fingers on spine, the whisper in my ear. Like a Rorschach blot, once you see the image, it never goes away no matter how many times to blink or rub your eyes, look away, shake your head.

Fidget's roommate can't sleep, but his obsession is observation, scientific pursuit. He's out on the telescope most nights. Not tonight though, too foggy.

I go back to bed, curl up. Fidget curls up next to me, argument forgotten, the cold war over.