The Limp

The dreams inside me are like animated prison tattoos. They mark me through the night and have a meaning one needs deep inside knowledge to decipher. My woman can’t seem to understand this. She says I sleep like a man who is being electrocuted. Usually she waits until I’m awake and out watching the sun climb to its post before she konks out herself. Summer, I keep the rear door of the RV open to give her a merciful breeze. She’s the sort of woman who deserves more than she needs. I can see her from where I am, but I don’t look up. I cannot bear to watch her sleep. The sun’s there now, and for a few more moments of peace, I find the power lines and set up a chair. Whatever energy those lines leak out tie my ankle bracelet’s signal into a knot. I know I’ve nothing to worry about — I’ve given up on trying to find myself, too. A delivery truck passes and its driver draws a comb through his beard. He sees me, slows. I stand up as if to greet him, but he presses down and rattles past. When you have nothing to do but wait for nothing, there’s an endless sense in your gut like falling through air.

I’d run away, but there’s my limp.

This story was an exercise. Write 222 words based on the photo above. It’s probably very far from the truth, but that’s what stories are. Just guesses.

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