A tattered piece of napkin is fused to the formica table top creating a semi circle from where the glass syrup dispenser sat. Frank’s forearm is momentarily glued to the table.
Frank fishes for an ice cube from his water and begins to mop the sugary halo.
The sound of leather and metallic tapping off the chrome bass of the table escalates. Frank’s restless legs syndrome telegraphs his anxiety.
“Okay Frank, this is just between you and I…..okay?”
He nods yes.
“What I understand is that you can’t stop it or shut it down, you can only strap yourself in and go for the ride, you are no longer in the drivers seat. I hate to tell you this, but your guardian angel is helpless and can only watch and maybe drop words of comfort and gently remind you in a sweet whisper that your fucked my friend. You texted me that It started with awareness that your pill box organizer is not lying. Not that the medication is gone or forgotten but each container labeled with each day of the week are still full. It’s just not the loss of time but the loss of days. Is that right Frank?”
Again Frank nods yes. His hand trembles while still holding the ice cube.
“Frank, there are no magic beans here that is going to cure you. It’s a sad affair my friend. What can I do now while you are still cognitive?”
Frank’s eyes wonder over to the woman cashier as the line of customers grows while waiting for a table. He avoids eye contact with me as the truth of his situation becomes a reality.
Frank becomes aware that he is still holding the cube of water.
“Frank look at me, what can I do to help you?”
Franks eyes tears up. He clasps his hands so tight that his knuckles turn white. Frank doesn’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken. The tapping grows louder from underneath the table and suddenly stops. Franks face becomes blank and pale as his emotions fade away. Receding and lost in the chasm of his mind, his soul is swallowed by the bottomless abyss. Frank then disappears from our table.