cunt full of colored glass splinters under the Northern Lights.
He washed his penis and buttoned up his pants.
Something was watching his every thought and movement with cold, sneering hate, the shifting of his testes, the contractions of his rectum. He was in a room filled with green light. There was a stained wood double bed, a black wardrobe with full length mirror. Carl could not see his face. Someone was sitting in a black hotel chair.
He was wearing a stiff bosomed white shirt and a dirty paper tie. The face swollen, skull-less, eyes like burning pus.
“Something wrong?” said the nurse indifferently. She was holding a glass of water out to him. She watched him drink with aloof contempt. She turned and picked
up the jar with obvious distaste.
The nurse turned to him: “Are you waiting for something special?” she snapped. Carl had never been spoken to like that in his adult life. “Why no. . . .” “You can go then,” she turned back to the jar. With a little exclamation of disgust she wiped a gob of semen off her
hand. Carl crossed the room and stood at the door.
“Do I have another appointment?”
She looked at him in disapproving surprise: “You’ll be notified of course.” She stood in the doorway of the cubicle and watched him walk through the outer office and open the door. He turned and attempted a jaunty wave. The nurse did not move or change her expression.
As he walked down the stairs the broken, false grin burned his face with shame. A homosexual tourist looked at him and raised a knowing eyebrow. “Something wrong?