After a sandwich lunch, I've hit the bed gazing out the window in my brother's room. It's February in Indianapolis. Thinking about drifting in warm waters. Baja California waters. I'm eating rice out of a small styrofoam container. I crack into something.. It's my fork. The feeling of accidentally biting down on your fork. The metallic pain. I don't stop. I continue biting down on it even though I see one of the tines sits at the bottom of the container.
I wake up. My jaw is numb. The taste of the fork remains.
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