The Mess Hall

Graham reached for the glass of milk by his bedside table. The milk was warm. Like all milk, Graham himself consisted mainly of water – water & innumerable, fatty globules. Graham was not an obese man, he was actually quite trim, but he was nevertheless able to bounce off things. He was a bumper car. He was a family Labrador. He was a turnbuckle. He was a suitcase riding along an airport security track. He was glowing neon blue. He drank his milk – all in one gulp – & moved toward the window. He closed the window. With the drapes closed, he could no longer see the florescent sign that often made his face shine blue. For the first time in ages, Graham let his thoughts wander towards his father. Graham narrowed his eyes until he resembled a logger focusing on a rising column of smoke, beyond the mess hall, & over the horizon. He then threw himself back onto the mattress where 850 individually pocketed coils absorbed his every move. He turned over onto his side & systematically pawed at his pillow until it was the proper shape. He considered driving one precise head-butt into the blue pillow, but then thought twice about it. He thought a third time about it, & head-butted his pillow. A small ‘oomph’ left his lips. He burped & tasted milk. As he drifted off into a dream, he felt the probes of various security personel. He could have sworn that tiny hands were tugging his arthritic, yellow tail. He vowed to wake up, smile, frown, remove himself from the ropes, & touch something that his father once gave him; something he broke.