Fruitbat

3. 3

3

Si

11:11 pm

“Oh no!” I bolt forward. My legs carry me so quickly, I’m floating over the pavement, and leap onto the sidewalk across the street. A doorbell jingles as I storm through the storefront and scurry to the fallen clerk’s side.

He’s laid out on the hard floor, coated with a sheen of soapy water, from a fresh mopping.

I watched him slip, after I’d stopped to stare, flailing like an over-the-top actor from those old, silent films. It was comical until his head bounced against the metal shelf, so hard, that my own skull cracked just bearing witness to the impact.

He’s out cold .

I reach for my pocket to collect my phone, realizing I left it at home. “Dammit!” I mutter, my sneakers struggle to grip the slick polished concrete as I pull myself up and skate toward the check-out counter.

There must be a phone here? My eyes scan the wall of booze bottles and cigarettes, then dart to the cubby compartments under the cash counter.

Nothing .

I skid through an open door frame, into a small office. My eyes dart around the cramped space, before noticing the tattered messenger bag, left on the single chair. This must belong to him? I tear it open and reach inside, searching for a familiar shape, parting an old laptop from a bundle of file-folders holding thick stacks of papers. Several pens clink against a chapstick tube and I feel the recognizable shape of an inhaler for asthmatics. Damien keeps one on him at all times.

I tuck the little life-saving device in my pocket, thinking he might need it when he wakes up.

There is however, no phone in the bag, or its front pocket.

Dammit!

I rush back out and kneel next to the conked stranger. His chest is rising and falling under a faded t-shirt— Well, that’s good —and his soft belly is peeking out from under the hem. — Cute . His thick arms are sprawled out, with one still reaching up, toward a shelf, hanging by his fingertips. His shaggy brown hair is clipped tight at the sides, then cut into a choppy mullet, that’s soaking up mop water from beneath him .

I twist back, spotting rolls of paper towels, lining a shelf across the way. Crawling over the soapy residue, I grab one off the shelf, tearing the plastic wrap off it, and wrap sheets around my hand, tucking the roll under my arm. Then I shimmy back to the fallen man, on my knees, and sop up some of the mess around his body.

I need a second roll, to clean myself up. Ammoniated citrus is definitely not my signature scent.

I don’t know what else to do, so I curl my knees to my chest, lean against the wall of refrigerators, and wait.

I watch him lie there and monitor his breathing, ready to squirt the inhaler between his pouty bowed lips when needed.

“Mmm…” he moans, stirring after several minutes.

I roll onto my knees and shuffle to his side, sweeping a wavy strand of hair off his forehead, as his warm-maple eyes pry open. He squints under the harsh fluorescent lights.

I hover over him to shade his sight.

“Hey.” I say with a smile.