Chapter 1 Kiwis

Chapter 1

Kiwis


It was just above his right knee.  Green?  With little black dots?  He moved under the light.  What the hell?  Did the guy puke up kiwis?  And what was that smell?  He sniffed the air.  Mint?  Kiwis and mint?  He bent over to get a better look, squinted  and stared, then lost his balance.  He grabbed the table to steady himself.

Scrub it off.  That's what.  He shuffled into the bathroom, soaked a washrag, and bent to rub off the green, minty, designer vomit.   Poised to wipe away the traces of his unpleasant train ride, he again squinted down at his right leg, just above the knee.  What the fuck!  Where was it?  Just to be sure, he checked his left knee.  No.  He was sure it was the right.  He raised his leg and placed his foot on the edge of the tub, turned his knee to meet the other and examined the outside of his leg.  Nothing.  Then he turned his knee out and peered at his inner leg.  There it was.  The kiwi vomit.

"My trousers must have been twisted the first time I saw it.  Yeah.  That's it."

Wait. Did the stain seem a bit higher up his leg?  Can't be.  But, if his trousers had indeed been twisted. . . . Damn.  He needed his glasses.  He stomped into his bedroom and grabbed his readers.  Once back in the bathroom, he again soaked the rag then replaced his foot on the edge of the tub.  He twisted his spine in order to get a better look.  Where did the tiny black seeds go?  If only he were a dog or a cat, he could get a better look, maybe even lick off the stain.  Where the fuck did that come from?  He again felt dizzy for a moment.  After a few deep breaths, he lifted the rag to scrub.
The stain now seemed to have moved even higher.

He threw the rag into the sink and, hopping on one foot, yanked off his trousers and tossed them into the hamper.  This time he soaked the rag he used hot water then scraped it across a bar of soap.  Then he searched for signs of the stain on his flesh.  No green.  Only the tiny black dots, seeds, whatever.  He slammed the rag against his leg and scrubbed.  He checked again.  The seeds were still there.  He grabbed his razor and tried to shave them off.  Once.  Twice, nicking himself.

Someone knocked on the door.  What great timing.  Fuck!

He rushed over to get rid of the asshole.  He whipped the door open letting the knob slam against the wall, and there in the shadowy hall stood the old lady from the train.  Was she staring at his junk or the blood running down his leg?