Stephen Mejias

Signs of sickness, with a scent like ennui, all over the apartment: dirtied tissues tossed to the floor, the many jilted cups of tea, unfinished this, unwashed that, empty cans of soup, the pale and quiet Moscode.

Still, it took so much energy just to get out. Through the dark tunnels and into the sunshine of this spring day. I passed by a child who had the purest smile. I wondered if I ever owned a smile like hers.

When the doctor took a look into my mouth, he jumped back five feet and yelled: "YIKES!"

Blood work will tell if it's strep or mono. If it's strep, I get to take an antibiotic. If it's mono, I just have to wait it out. Tomorrow, I'll know.

I woke up at 6 this morning, just as the sun was coming up; a rich, warm glow through my almond curtain. I knew the day would be lovely. At just after 6 this evening, the sun is falling asleep, too.

Downstairs, my neighbors are listening to their music; I've had trouble classifying it, though it must live in some bin as everything else does. It's South American, maybe, or from some warm island. It involves fast percussion, intricate guitar lines, dominant and complex bass patterns, and is often annoying. Annoying, but interesting.

There comes a time with my writing when I don't know where it's going. That time is now. Perhaps, tomorrow, the blood work will tell me.