Romance roamed through my thoughts like rams pretending to graze while they drool-fully gazed at freshly sheered ewes. Jazz had short hair: not shaved, but smartly cut in short edges. No bright colored highlights. Her trimmed locks were pure golden blonde. Her eyes were emerald.
But I should stop torturing myself.
Like I said, romance roamed. That was yesterday. Today, romance reeks and reels in reverse. My thoughts should attempt to refocus on reality.
I can wiggle my toes. I can wiggle my toes.
I need to stay awake, but morphine makes it difficult. The drug distorts my dreams. I see Jazz dancing, but she talks like a mouse. I say I love her. She responds, “Eek.” I ask what that means. I hear, “Eeeek” accented, like I’m crazy for even asking. The morphine needs to stop dripping.
I’m tired. My hope is paralyzed like legs freshly crushed by a drunken pickup truck driver wearing a denim cowboy hat and cheap blue shaded sunglasses.
I can still smell his cigarette and cheap-beer-polluted breath ask, “Are you alright, man?” If laughter had been available at the time I would have used it.
I should’ve paid attention. Mom told me, “You pay attention out there. It’s not Montana.” I still hear tires screeching, a terrified voice screaming and bones breaking in small pieces.
But I think Jazz was going to smile. I saw it start in her eyes. She was even wearing a silver cross. I noticed it glisten just before.
I should stop torturing myself.
I think I’ll press this morphine button again and maybe again.
“Jesus, is that you?”
I smell perfume, I think. I doubt Jesus wears Obsession. I’m sure His natural odor is just fine to Him, or supernatural? Who would tell Him if it wasn’t?
“Jesus, are you holding a mouse?”
Why is He handing me a little gray rodent?
“Of course, I should’ve known. Everybody hit by a truck gets a mouse.”
“Jesus, where’d you go? You left your mouse. What! That’s it? You come visit and leave a rat?”
“Okay, a mouse. Lord, I don’t remember this passage or story. I must have slept through the Mouse Parable in Sunday school. Nothing personal, but church started pretty early back in Butte.”
Sigh. I guess I have a mouse.
“Hey, do you know Jazz? You smell like her. Don’t tell her: the comparison might not seem flattering. She works on Broadway. She’s a dancer. I’m an actor, kind of.”
I wonder why Jesus came to see me? I wish He would have visited before I was squashed by the truck. Maybe …
That’s true. I didn’t call for Him before that.
“What? I not only understand a mouse, but it can hear my thoughts? I couldn’t make it as a drug addict. This is way too weird.”
“So mouse, do you speak Eek-lish, Chin-eek, Span-eek or are you from Mozambe-eek?”
“Should have known, Neek Jersey.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t pick up on the accent, okay. Give me a break, I’m on morphine you know.”
Hmmm. Got an idea.
“Hey, mouse could you run down to my toes and give them a tickle for me?”
“Oh, you did. That’s not good.”
“Okay, try again.”
Hey! Hey! I can … What’s with that light in my eyes?
“Mis-ta Edwards. Mis-ta Edwards, you awake?”
My eyes blink and the blurs slowly begin to focus on a foreign looking face.
“I your doctor. You awake?”
He sounds like a bad Jackie Chan imitation. Aren’t there American doctors anymore?
“Yes, yes, I’m awake.”
“I have good news for you.”
“Have you seen my mouse?”
“No, no mouse. But prognosis for smashed legs is good. You should be walking within six months.”
“That quick, huh?”
“I spoke to your family, they flying out here today.”
“Great.” I know, mother, you told me so.
“The nurses say you did have one visitor.”
“A little cutie named Jazz; said she’d be back tomorrow. She left cross necklace for you. I see you later.”
You’re welcome, and for the record, I don’t wear perfume. My presence is a fragrance and it needs to be your obsession. Now, lay off the morphine and don’t make fun of your doctor.
So where’s my mouse?
Huh? What? You’re kidding me, right, Lord? Are you laughing? It’s not about the mouse is it?
Oh! You left … the cross.
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