Debridement

He sits, he stares, he empties the contents of his nose into a wad of already-damp tissue. He crumples the wad. He considers saving it in his pocket for later use. Could the tissue withstand another attack? He puts it in his pocket. He thinks about churches. He still smells her on himself. He thinks more intently about churches, then railroad ties, gravel pits, house fires.

Briefly, he forgets where he is. He is at home, at his desk. No, at the office. No, the grocery store.

He is, in fact, at home. Trying to write a story about a moped-riding bigfoot. What a stupid premise. He calls it ‘Paul & the Piaggio’.

He sits and stares at the monitor. He begins plucking individual hairs from his head. His bottom teeth hurt. They are small, like baby teeth, and they are crowded and crooked and with the occasional sharp edge. He tries writing about the sasquatch’s teeth. He imagines the teeth of bears, badgers, dogs. Their teeth are small also, but yellowed and far more sharp. Does his yeti eat meat? He is uncertain.