By Sam Everick
Fever cramps your legs as you watch the test develop. The man in your phone, the musician from Red’s, wants to come over and give you a massage. He already had the virus, he says. He’s practically immune.
And practically a stranger, but you remember how his hand cradled the neck of his guitar.
When he shows up, he holds a bottle of brandy. “Shit’s better than NyQuil.”
You burn. He grips your thigh, pulling you taut. White blood cells swarm the site of invasion within your body: a foreign thing, a shivering furnace.
~
The test renders one line, then two.
Shivering furnace. Good imagery .
Dangerous liaisons! Nicely told.