From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time. Up close, we see now, he should not be here.
He sits alone at the same corner table every day, all day, playing solitaire. Narrating his rational plays, he slaps down cards so hard the table shakes. His sane voice, loud above the moans and snores of others. They sit slumped in wheelchairs or on upholstered couches with protective plastic seat covers. Some have spittle hanging from parched lips. Between hands, he talks to the teenage aide standing nearby. “I lost again. Nobody wins here. Did you see that string of clubs?” She nods, bored with her job. “I want my Science magazine. They didn’t renew my subscription!”
How was this man, an inconvenience to someone, surviving here? We will definitely report this hellhole to authorities.
Written for Monday’s Prosery prompt at dVerse.
Kim hosts today, asking us to include the line “From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time” in a piece of flash fiction, exactly 144 words in length. The line is from D. H. Lawrence’s poem Humming Bird.
Image in public domain at Pixabay.com