Mary. It is unquestionably Mary. A slight loving smile on her Mona Lisa lips like affectionate amusement in her errant child, forgiving him for all the times he has screwed up and welcoming home despite. Unconditional. She is too good for him, and in the emotional rush he felt like crying.
And then something scratched along his synpase like fingers on a chalkboard. His head. Head. His. That was right. Somehow it had been disconnected from his neck, left just sitting on the stump like a pumpkin from Washington Irving. He forced his eyes open to bleak, uninteresting white with a shotgun pattern of black holes. Cold pedestal, cold white tile.
The bathroom, he realized gloomily. The cenotaph. They had left him in one of the stalls. “Build a summer home here,” he mumbled around the size of his tongue. His body had become liquescent; tried to stand, couldn’t remember how. Tried again, failed, and ended up pulling himself out of the stall and to the basin counter. A look in the mirror didn’t help; vertical motion seemed to fracture his brain like a kaleidoscope. “Sorry my ass,” he told the dismal, ravaged reflection. He ran some water, let it cool and tried to bathe his face and neck.
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