Yet under the blanket.
I’m not sure if I’ll be able to tolerate the flying vermin which have infested my house for the last three months long enough to blog this, but I’ll try. As I said recently, I don’t look like I’m typing; thanks to the fruit flies which attend every vegan hippie like the pages surrounding Cleopatra, I look like I’m Carol Channing, playing to the back rows on Broadway.
But I’ll try.
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I didn’t really believe it. None of us really believed it. Until the blanket. Until they pulled out the blanket and draped it over him and even then, still, some primal instinct within us was wishing, hoping, truly believing that they’d tuck it under his chin and say, “There you go, Fred,” and he’d say thanks, it’s cold out, but the only one who said it was cold out was the nurse who’d been working on him ever since the car hit him.
And as they pulled the blanket up over his face, it got even colder.
raincoaster 