WHAT AM I THINKING NOW? • by Mike Whitney

Sammy rolled over in bed, nudging his wife Fran gently in the back. “Honey, would you get that, tell her I’ll be later than I thought. About 10 this morning.”

Fran reached for the phone just as it rang. She pulled back her hand like it was burned.

“I HATE when you do that. I’m never ready for it, especially when I’m sleeping. Hello, hi, Brenda. No, Sam can’t get there till 10. Yes, glad you called, too. Bye.”

Sammy propped himself up on his elbows in bed. “Did she say she’d open up and change the first two appointments?”

“Yes, Miller and the Dubek woman, the one who’s trying to…”

“Contact her dead husband.”

Fran glared, “If you know, why do you bother asking?”

“You know why.”

Fran gritted her teeth and made a noise, something between a growl and a scream. She rolled over. Under the covers, she silently shot her middle finger out of her clenched fist.

Sammy tried not to laugh, but a snicker escaped his lips. He rolled over and touched Fran on the shoulder. She flinched, rolling her shoulder away. He knew she would resist at first. He liked it when she did.

Born in Chicago on the day Albert Einstein died, Mike Whitney lives with his wife on a hillside in North Carolina, and has only implanted memories of how he got there.

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Joseph Kaufman