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Alright, I finally got some time and finished an edit of Capsule One. I think it will give you more context for Capsule Two (sorry for the weird order, Capsule Two was giving me headaches).
I hope you enjoy it!
Capsule One: March 2009
It is 7:00 AM. A motorcycle is roaring. The air smells of wheatgrass and cinnamon and he can see the tip of the sun rising across the plain. Thirteen miles vanish as he blinks; he opens his mouth to yell and thirteen more disappear. The roaring is growing louder, painful, and he grips the handles harder. Then he stands, staggers across the room, and runs a finger across the face of his iPhone. The roaring stops with a click.
Chilled, he rubs his pale arms and looks back at his lover still lying in bed. She is asleep, her hair pooled like a sea of blood, undisturbed by the sound or his dreams. He wonders when she is going to leave him.
He opens the bedroom door and pads across the hall into the bathroom. The tiles are cold so he shuffles onto the bathmat and turns on the shower. Water sighs dejectedly and he waits. He looks in the mirror, runs a hand through black hair still stiff from yesterdayâ€™s gel, and puffs out his stomach like he used to as a child. Back then, he pretended to be a starving child with either a concave or convex belly. Now, try as he might, heâ€™s stuck with convex.
Steam covers the mirrorâ€™s face so he steps into the shower. He sighs, not noticing his sighing, and fires snot out of his nostrils. His breath comes easier now and the muscles in his back unclench. He wants to sit on the tubâ€™s floor, open his mouth, and drown like a turkey. He spits the water out and grabs his shampoo. It is cheap and feels like dish cleaner but it smells like vanilla, like a woman who left him years ago.
Thoughts bubble up and he wonders if the Dead Sea will be empty in fifteen years. Glacier National Park should be renamed National Park so it stands to reason that the Dead Sea might die in his lifetime. This doesnâ€™t bother him but he doesnâ€™t notice. War and famine and disease and tragedy in a dozen countries whose names he collects like stamps flit through his consciousness and he suddenly craves Doritos but he has cut high fructose corn syrup out of his diet so he hopes the urge goes away before work ends and he passes the grocery store. The Taliban is approaching the capital of Pakistan and heâ€™s not sure if the US should intervene or let the Pakistanis handle it themselves. They havenâ€™t shown the backbone so far and things donâ€™t look good.
He becomes aware that he is ejaculating because of the familiar twist of his hand to point his stream toward the drain. He watches his semen drift down to mix with the snot, piss, and semen of yesterday. The tip of his penis is sticky but a small amount of soap remedies that. His body is clean and the shower should be over but he stands for a minute longer with his eyes closed and warm water pouring into his open mouth. His tongue stops it from flowing down his throat so it reaches his lips and tumbles onto his chest like the miniature waterfall in the yard of his childhood home that he stopped up with snow and sticks in the fourth grade. He spits, turns the shower off, steps out, and grabs a towel.
The mirror is fogged and he doesnâ€™t bother to wipe it off. The air is pleasantly humid, like South Carolina years ago, so he stands naked and shaves. He is new to it, recently trading electric razors for real blades, so he cuts himself a few times and still feels it. The styptic burns as it stops the bleeding but he expects it and doesnâ€™t gasp anymore. Orange flavored tooth paste that no one likes and an unknown person bought fills his mouth so he spits again and flosses despite the fact that he cannot afford the dentist but knows he has a cavity but it doesnâ€™t hurt yet so it will have to wait.
Before he leaves, he sticks his head into the bedroom and says goodbye to his sleeping lover. She mumbles something in dream-tongue and rolls over so the sheets cocoon her. He grabs his headphones and sticks them in his ears. He puts on his coat with the too-tight mandarin collar that he pretends will one day fit because of promises to lose weight he will never lose. Before the door closes, he glances at the clock. It is 8 AM. He has to go thirteen miles. He blinks but he is still there. He opens his mouth to yell but he is still there.
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