Lips pulled off the pillow, followed by a neck and head just out of sleep. Kicking sheets bunched at his ankles, Simon pushed against the mattress, bringing his body to a rise. In half-sleep, lurching, he drew the shades with a squint, testing his morning eyes. The foul stick of stale beer coated his teeth and stenched his nose with each breath. Every step was a race to the bathroom, where, after a much-needed release, he would attempt to brush his polluted mouth clean.

He’d had a dream that he couldn’t quite figure. Spitting into the sink, he tried to recall her face, liquid eyes in jaundice. She was in color and he was black and white. She was holding a torn piece of parchment, and he was thinking of dying. In not enough words for a sentence, he asked her name. She responded, “...my only map is a kiss left from lips, like a fossil of my love.”

Her voice trickled in puddles, a raindrop for every syllable exclaimed. He had no body, only hands. Hands that did not grab, or could not grab, they were wiggling digits in a fitful frenzy, aching. Rapping the toothbrush twice, vigorously, against the sink, Simon felt empty, wanting to know her. He had brushed too hard; the gingivitis gums started to bleed.

The bathtub was old and moderately ill, pitted around the edges. Splashing warm water on his face, he tried not to look up to avoid nausea. Fighting to puddle, the water dribbled down the chin following the curve of his neck, collecting over the collarbone. Simon went back to the dream, the remnants still lingering on the morning. Accompanied by the sound of water hitting the iron tub, he murmured aloud, “Behold the lamb of God, behold him who taketh away the sins of the world. . . I prostrate myself before thee. . . my only map is a kiss left from lips, like a fossil of my love.”
Not sure what it meant, or why he said it, he went over the verse in his head, letting the shower hit the back of his head, moving the soap over his arms and chest.

The slow drain formed a small puddle around Simon’s feet, pruning the toes under stubbed-crooked nails. He wondered who she was? He wanted to crawl back into bed, throw the covers over his head and dig his face into a pillow, suffocating to dream, the pressure on his eyes pressing colors in black to see her. Reaching down, he turned the water off and grabbed a towel. He was hungry for breakfast.

Simon picked a pair of jeans up off the floor and looped a belt through. Searching for his wallet and keys, he combed his hair, parting it to the left, shiny wet. Cracking his spine with a sharp backward thrust, he put on his coat, making sure his cigarettes were in the pocket. Once in the car, he lit a smoke and sat for a few moments warming it up. He couldn’t decide where to go. There was that little place over by the gas station on Route 1, or, the McDonalds off the highway by the truck stop. He considered both equally. The last time he went to that little place he was sure the waitress tried to short him on his change. He had never been to the McDonald’s before, so it seemed appealing enough.

Inside, Simon stood in line, instantly depressed by the situation. He was fourth and everyone looked miserable. Behind the register he could see the cooks tossing things around, speaking in Spanish. He wondered if they knew what they were doing? Could he trust them with his food? He ordered an egg McMuffin, small orange juice, and two hash browns. At the condiment table, he took one of the little white cups and placed it under the ketchup dispenser. Pumping it, the thick red spurted out, raining a gentle ketchup mist on Simon’s hand as it filled the inadequate cup. He picked up a pile of napkins and searched for a seat.

In the far corner of the restaurant, Simon sat and opened his breakfast. He was dissatisfied with the quality of biscuit struggling to straddle the egg and bacon as it crumbled onto the wrapper below. He examined the egg, looking for contamination while dipping it into the ketchup. Fixed out the window, he watched the cars go by, counting all the red ones. From little white packets, he poured salt on his hash brown, pretending it was acid rain falling on a little city – he could hear their screams. He brought the hash brown to his mouth and carnally sunk his teeth into the soft of what was once potato. Maybe she lived here in this city and he was eating her? He wanted to taste her but couldn’t; it was impossible to distinguish – all the bodies mixed together tasted like one.

If he met her on the street, she would have a bite mark on her arm. If he met her on the street, his body would cease to function, falling apart at the seams, leaving only his hands to speak the language necessary to find where X marks the spot; pointing would be his only hope. He would be in black and white, and she in color. He thought they could lie down together, his hands and her voice, to sleep. Their correspondence would exist primarily on the health of their skin, the cells flaking off as they rolled in and out on one another. If he met her on the street.

Simon took the last bite, meticulously wiping the corners of his mouth. Crumbling the wrapper, he cleaned the table and brought the tray to the wastebasket. He had counted thirty-two red cars this morning and was ready to go back to sleep.