Skunk
enters the kitchen, the air saturated with the potent earthy incense of fresh
coffee.
deleted
name: Jesus but do you look a mess! Did you sleep at all last
night?
He
rises and crosses to the filter machine, taking down from the cupboard above it
a mug for his guest.
Skunk
(his hands passing over the stubble upon his face): I had a nightmare, it was,
I I
he
shrugs. His words croak from out his throat, from which deleted name
infers that the damage sustained to his vocal chords is resisting its prescribed
pharmaceutic.
Skunk:
I was on the plane home and it crashed, and... Thanks
for
the coffee placed before him on the table.
deleted
name: You know there’s an old joke about the percentage of deaths that take
place in hospital. I forget the, the, now let me see here, the figure is to do
with the high percentage of people that die... I forget this, a high percentage
of people die in hospital, so the, the protagonist of the joke or
whoever, mentions that... Well, this is comedy...
Skunk
smiles.
deleted
name (his hands now at his own unshaven cheeks): The gist of the thing is
that if you want to live longer, you should avoid hospitals. That’s the joke,
right there! It’s such a tiny risk, the notion of a plane-crash, but if you,
one way to... If you think there’s going to be a problem, just smack your head
off the seat in front of you ‘til you black out
accompanying
this with the violent throwing forward of his head; some lengths of hair fall
across his face and these he fingers back across his skull.
Skunk
pauses midway through drinking from his mug, unsure as to exactly how much
gravitas deleted name merits his own outburst.
deleted
name: Seriously though, if you’re unconscious, you can’t appreciate when
your heart stops, or your brain, so
Skunk:
But don’t you have to, no no no, God, of course. For a second there I was
thinking that, that, you know, how could... how could your body die
without you,
sipping
from the mug to replace the moisture he feels each word takes with it
Skunk:
not without you as such, but you know what I mean. It’s almost like
being an absentee from your own death. So... I wonder if there’s any
difference, if you can actually ehm, if it actually registers in your subcon-
not your subconscious mind, what, your unconscious mind? I wonder if
there’s some register that a change has taken place.
deleted
name (laughing): Oh Skunk, you’re dead. You can’t, you’re not going
to, your mind won’t tell you that.
His
laughter is infectious, a run-on stream of breath enough to momentarily allow
them both outside the topic’s obvious weight.
Skunk:
I guess not, no. No.
