He showers then dries himself, avoiding eye contact with his reflection.
Honeyed Cat rubs her body around the outside of his ankle then slithers to the inside of his other ankle.
She doubles back around, bangs her tiny head into his shin, repeats her rub.
“I have a lot to be grateful for,” he says to himself.
He uses the towel to fan dry his testicles then stands straight, reaches for the ceiling on his tiptoes, scrapes popcorn.
“I feel healthy,” he says. He says, “I can see, I can hear, I can feel.”
He scans his options in the closet then chooses a white t-shirt and the same shorts he wore yesterday.
“I can breathe easily through both nostrils,” he says. He says, “I’m clean, my face shaven, my scalp full of hair.”
“I have a roof to keep the sun from blistering my skin,” he says.
“There’s food in the fridge, vodka and ice in the freezer,” he says, “the pantry stocked with carbohydrates and nuts.”
“If I want to I can take a vitamin pill with 26 fruits and vegetables in it,” he says.
Honeyed Cat collapses onto the carpet, exposing her honey belly, which he rubs.
“I’m loved,” he says to himself. He says, “I love.”
“I’m educated,” he says. He says, “I make informed decisions.”
“I’ve traveled,” he says.
He remembers showering 6,000 miles from where he is today.
In that bathroom there was a window that looked on to a steep hillside with tall grass and trees.
The sky showed at the crest.
A steady breeze kept everything feeling/looking alive.
In that bathroom he shaved his face with his clippers then cleaned the scruff littered around the sink with toilet paper.
6,000 miles away from where he is today life still happens without him.
“I’m not the center of anything,” he says, “but I have a lot to be grateful for.”
Dressed, he looks at his reflection then becomes aware of his fragility.
“Everything can change with the blink of an eye,” he says.
Dressed, he understands the importance of not just dealing with disorder, but profiting from it.
“Even right now there can be something dormant in me that will one day cause great harm,” he says.
“The phone can ring with terrible news,” he says.
“Something can explode,” he says, “and change everything.”
“I can wake up tomorrow with signs of a sore throat,” he says.
“Pink eye,” he says.
“Interminable diarrhea,” he says.
“Chronic pain,” he says.
“Cortisol,” he says.
“Shark attack,” he says. He says, “box jellyfish sting.”
“Swarming wasps,” he says.
He opens the nearest book then reads a passage at random that has nothing to do with his train of thought.
Honeyed Cat fixes her tail into a question mark, walks into the kitchen.
