It happened on Tuesday. I was mid-sentence, on Tuesday, when it happened. I stopped speaking. My colleagues thought I was unwell. They were very solicitous. They phoned my husband after leaving me in the faculty lounge with a paper-cup of cold water leaking in my hands. My husband left his business associates and drove to my work. He ran to the faculty lounge. He thought I was unwell. He kept asking questions. I wasn’t speaking. After two long days of questions he took me to the hospital. The doctor kept asking questions. I wasn’t speaking. The doctor thought I was unwell. The doctor thought I should stay in the hospital for observation. They gave me a room and a nurse. The nurse didn’t ask any questions. I wasn’t speaking. She fluffed my pillows. She brought me my meals. She turned off the light when I’d fall asleep. She wasn’t speaking. She knew I was well. I was just not speaking.
4 comments:
Bartleby?
Like this a lot.
I, too, like this a lot, and the comparison with "Bartleby" is thought provoking.
I discovered recently that there is a whole category of flash fiction, variously defined, according to Wikipedia, as from six words to 1000 words. Seems like an interesting genre.
Funny, I thought Charlotte Perkins Gilman!
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