Digitally Dehydrated

William grabbed the water bottle and I bitch slapped him. Stating only after the fact, “I don’t like your name. That is why.”

The bottle hit the hardwood, rolled against the wall, and started seeping from the bright twist top.

“You’ve ruined my beech wood.” William said.
I slapped him again, this time with the back of my hand, curved enough so the knuckles were more than pacifist nubs. He cried out.

I told him not to worry. That he wouldn’t remember it. That he’d soon be distracted by something or other. That the water perhaps could retain an imprint, but that is only a relatively new theory.

He quivered, cream-eyed – Blank

I slapped him once more before I left, just for good measure. His eyes had diverted to the soggy stain accumulating on the baseboard and the floor.

His retina momentarily pulsed a blue pinprick then caved into his face.

*

I skipped down the street, talking to thin air and Haruki Murakami’s head about the detrimental effects of processed water in our society. Haruki’s head looked at me, lips pursed. “You slapped him good, I hope.”

“Yup, and left him dehydrated.”

Haruki wiggled his ears, “good” wiggle-wiggle “good.”

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