Fiction: The Thing About Naps by Cassander L. Smith
What I always forget about long naps is that when I wake up, I feel disoriented, heavy, impatient, groggy, mean, and sick. I yawn, stretch my arms into a Village People “Y,” and I feel tired, except I just slept three hours. When I’m like that, the photo of me on the T.V. stand, the one where I’m wearing the oversized Florida sweatshirt, makes me look like an elephant. Or I hang up the phone on Jay because he’s singing into the receiver. I am impatient and heavy and groggy, mean, sick.
Today, I hate that I napped at all like I hate having taken that photograph of me swallowed up in faded blue and orange cotton. I should have been wide awake and energized because then I could have more quickly reached for the injured arm my next-door neighbor thrust forward when I answered the door. I could have been more gracious when he asked for peroxide and a band-aid. Instead, I cut my eyes, glaring at him before going into the bathroom to get the supplies.
“Can you do it for me?” he asks, and steps forward, holds the door open with his good arm. “I’m not crazy or nothing. I swear it.”
“Come on,” I sigh, wave him through the front door and to the bathroom, to the sink. “Put it here.”
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