Only a second passed when I felt another poke. I turned, but nobody was there. The bus was empty. I licked my lips. My mouth was dry. Iron beams flew past the window and in the distance, gray buildings were huddled together, defining themselves against the morning sky. We were crossing the Manhattan bridge.
I looked down at my leg. No bandages, nothing.
Gradually, I shed my groggy state. I was tired, but awake. At Atlantic-Barclays, the bus stopped, letting on a young man in scrubs. I stayed on for another ten minutes before getting off at my stop. The sun was bright when I walked into my apartment. Closing the blinds, I lay down on my bed and fell asleep almost immediately. When I awoke, I called the doctor.
YOU ARE READING
A Veritable Eyesore
Short StoryA man visits the doctor for pain in his knee, yet the details surrounding his injury remain uncertain. Something about a woman falling on his leg. Something about a party and being drunk and going home alone. None of it adds up. Not to the doctor, n...
