The trip to the hospital made her sick. They asked her where she was, but all she saw was yellow. They nodded. Yes, an ambulance. Their gloves reminded her of this video she’d seen about a woman making a tutorial how to make love (insert more graphic term here). Blue gloves, she said, and she could see thick fingers through it, nails too. The gloves didn’t match the age she saw in his face.
Mirr, she said, he was constructed of different human parts. The hair also was separate from his personality. He pronounced my name wrong, she said. If there was one letter missing I have the shortest name ever, how can you still pronounce it wrong. She said a woman laughed and that somebody else came to watch and said nothing, she had a pig’s nose. Everyone must have seen this, she said, but nobody had the guts. They said it was a psychosis and there were numbers to count, somewhere in the nineties. Three, four, five. But then with ninety and up. I felt for her. For her seeing that fat woman. For suddenly seeing her becoming pregnant instead.
If she ever was a comedian, I thought, she would hide behind the curtain.