
BLOOD WORK by Greg Mulcahy
Some things, Bass knew, were better not said, even if at one time everyone was saying them

Some things, Bass knew, were better not said, even if at one time everyone was saying them

He dipped his finger in the whipping cream and held it in front of the boy’s mouth. The boy looked down at his feet, then raised his head and licked the cream from the man’s finger.

The phone number I have, my phone number for the last 16 years at least, used to be this other guy’s phone number—

Oh dear is a fretful tingle. A tingle hatches hungry dread. Roger drops to knees.

I decided to order the burrito. I pronounced “burrito” wrong. The word fell from me, flabbergasting and impossible.

He’s lying on his back. His useless, hairless legs stay wherever I put them.

What your therapist doesn’t realize, you want to tell him, is that any length of loneliness is too long.

A gust of wind blows me forward. The storm follows me in through the door. The snow swirls at my feet. I laugh like a madman as I slip on the slick tiles.

The sixth psychiatrist was a young guy with tattoos and piercings and scruffy hair dyed the color of an Irish setter.

I have used meter-long glass tubes to settle debts twice both times swiped from the quote unquote office both times drew blood one time got my money back