Thursday
Picture 2
Burntcore's Choice: Both
Title:
“Have you been sniffing nail polish again?”
“What are you talking about?” I whirled around in my chair toward my co-conspirator across the thin cubical partition.
“You! You’ve been acting all trippy. Have you been sniffing your nail polish again?”
“You’re an idiot,” I retorted.
“Possibly, but at least I don’t sniff nail polish,” she said calmly, turning back to her workstation.
*I looked down at my fingertips and wiggled them, the nail polish freshly dried. I couldn’t help it. I loved having pretty nails and I couldn’t resist the smell of the polish. I finally got to the point where I could just sniff the polish without getting any of it on my face. That was a bit embarrassing to explain to anyone.
After an hour or so of work with our fingers dancing nimbly over the keys, Marsha turns toward me with an inquisitive expression on her face.
“What do you want, Marsha?” I asked as I finished the TPS report and saved it to print later.
“I’m curious,” she replied.
“About what?”
“About the nail polish thing, sniffing it,” she said as she rolled her chair over into my cube.
“What about it?”
“Well, what happens? Do you see stuff or just get kinda loopy or what?”
“Yeah, I guess I see stuff. It helps my writing.”
“How do you mean?”
I rolled my eyes. “Really? How do you think? I hallucinate. I have visions, daydreams, you name it.”
“For real?” she asked in disbelief.
“Yes, for real.”
She tapped her chin a few times as she thought over what I told her.
“What was the last vision daydream thing you had?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes! Very much so.”
I sat back in my chair and tried to decide just how much to tell her. I really didn’t do it that often, but the trips were pretty good. She made it sound like I was sniffing every hour on the hour. I did have to function regularly. Usually, I only pulled out the bottles when I was struggling for creativity. Today wasn’t one of those days, I just couldn’t resist the sparkly polish.
“Well?” Marsha prompted eagerly.
“Unicorns.”
“What?”
“Unicorns. I had a thing about white unicorns.”
“What else?”
“Erm ... the unicorn was talking to me.”
“Well, that’s odd isn’t it, for the unicorn to be talking?” Marsha asked.
“No more odd than a unicorn period.”
“True. Oh, please continue. What did it say to you?”
“Prancer was telling me about his wife.”
“The talking unicorn was telling you about his wife.”
“Yep, his wife’s name was Dancer.”
Marsha looked at me with complete disbelief on her face. “Whatever. You’re messing with me.”
“No, I’m serious. Sometimes it’s weird shit like this, unicorns and stuff. Other times, it’s not.” What I didn’t tell Marsha was that the unicorn thing was just a euphemism for sex. Lots of sex. The last time I really sniffed my nail polish, I had the most vivid, visual sex hallucination ever. The guy’s name was Prince –not that Prince— and while he and I were together, he was telling me about his wife, Dana, who was in the room watching us.
Maybe I should've cut back on the polish sniffing.
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