Too Hot for Time

The doctor was beautiful, with that kind of feathery hair you just want to reach out and run your fingers through. He had this pained expression on his face, like it hurt to be so beautiful, and the slowest movements on Earth, as if he had all the time in the world. But with parasites wringing my intestines into a neat string of nothing, inducing painful spasms every 30 seconds or so for three days, I was in a bit of a rush to swallow dem pills and get the fuck better. My name was spelled wrong on all the forms. I told him, “Actually it’s Bani. B-A-N-I.” One of the nurses by his side said, “Where is that name from?”


“And what does it mean?”

“Divine music.”

Aaaahhhh she sighs, as if That Explains Everything. When was the last time someone asked what Sarah or Michael means? No squiggly red wave underlining those names in Word. I cracked a small smile. Dr. Too Hot for Time checks the tests, diagnoses me and finally writes a prescription. I ask him about the X-Ray.

“So…what’s inside me?”


 Santa Marta

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