by Neal Von Flue
And she’s calling you, her tan elegant arm caught between a purple rubber glove and the bright splash of her scrubs. Rubbing a shoulder that used to be yours—it appears to you in that moment like a childhood home—and she’s saying “C’mon, Hon. Come back now.” Like a siren shipwrecked on an island of beige tile, the bleach and water lapping at her black clogs, she’ll call you in.
This story has been temporarily removed from this page because it can be found in my book, SWEEPING UP AFTER THE PARTY IS OVER.
If you typically enjoy confessional meditations on the state of the American health care system, then order a copy from the shop.
