by Chris Allinotte

I lay in the old-fashioned hand-crank type hospital bed and sweat, watching the one channel that hasn’t crapped out in the summer rain. I only have a short distance to reach the tall blue tumbler of water on the table with its almost sexual beads of sweat, and the whispered promise of relief delivered through a bendy straw, but it might as well be in Kapus-fucking-kasing for all my ability to reach it. My shoulders itch under the heavy plaster and gauze that hold me, heal me, madden me; never again will I use “sultry” when I mean “sensual.” I turn my head away from the full, clear plastic that teems with ice and clean cool water and beg the television to entertain me but in response Fred hits a wall and sees birds, which is not what happens when you hit a wall. My auburn-haired angel arrives with a call of “Bedtime, Terry.” She slides a backscratcher down inside my cast at my eager bidding, and I almost climax with relief until she tops this by moving the table close enough that I see God, and at last, my love has come along, and I drink deeply, knowing my girlfriend will understand.


Chris Allinotte is a Toronto writer who likes scary funny dirty subjects, preferably all at the same time.