the heel press

Laying in bed he holds the bottle up to the light. 14 pills for 7 days. He pushes the cap down and turns. It's more difficult than he thought it'd be so he reads the directions again, "Press down firmly and turn to the right". Upon opening, he shakes a few out and pins one between his finger and thumb while corralling the rest back into the bottle.

He breathes â€" it hurts to do so.

The pill is a large eggshell-white capsule scored in the middle on one side, just in case someone couldn't swallow it whole they could cut it in half, the directions say. "That's good," he thought to himself, given that his throat was swollen shut and he hadn't been able to eat anything for a day and a half. The pill is larger than most of the multi-vitamins he never takes but has plenty of. He looks up the antibiotic online at Yahoo!Health â€" search: augmentin â€" just to see if there was anything else he should know about it other than what was on the sheet of paper the pharmacist at the Rite-Aid around the corner gave him. Turns out that the antibiotics effectively kill whichever bacteria have made it past the immune system. The website calls it a "selective poison" and he likes the idea of that. Other than that, there was nothing else important and the side effects were what could be expected. Last time he looked up something on Yahoo!Health he nearly convinced himself he had cancer and a certain venereal disease, but he only had strep throat â€" the reason for the antibiotics now.

He remembered that drinking alcohol on antibiotics lessens it effect but he didn't remember how â€" search: antibiotics and alcohol. As it turns out, alcohol speeds up the body's cleaning system and essentially the body excretes the antibiotics too early and the level of it in the system does not remain constant and thus lessens its effectiveness. He has an insatiable need to know why and how things happen. It doesn't matter if the end result is detrimental to his health, what's most important is he understands the process behind it. This is the second time in 6 months he's had to take antibiotics and he's most worried that he can't drink alcohol for a week. Last time he took antibiotics it was for bronchitis. He's been smoking for 10 years and for 10 years he's been in love with the same girl. 10 years and the cons have always outweighed the pros. Smoking's killing him. She keeps hurting him. But still he knows he won't stop doing either. He's killing himself and he derives pleasure from both, and in some way, he believes it's what's keeping him alive. He says, "I should stop smoking." He says, "I shouldn't love her."

He inhales.

He closes his ibook, which had been resting on his chest and has now left a red mark just above his nipples. He sits up in bed, pulls himself to the edge, and swings his legs onto the floor. Standing up, the blood quickly rushes to his head, accentuating the headache which he attributes to dehydration and malnourishment. He walks to the kitchen with pill in hand to get a glass of water and looks at the sink and he laughs to himself when he notices that every plate, utensil, and cooking accessory he owns is piled in it. Even the corn-on-the-cob skewers are there. He can't recall what he last used them for. Perhaps for cleaning out the ash and soot in his bowl because it wasn't pulling smoothly. Perhaps it was to eat corn. He grabs a mug from the top of the pile, rinses it out, and turns the faucet on. The water never gets very cold so he settles for lukewarm water. He touches his throat to feel his glands that are so swollen they feel like his testicles. He laughs at the odd feeling. The pain is like a bright loud pulsating red sound. He puts the pill on his tongue, quickly brings the mug to his lips, delivers water to his mouth, and opens his throat pulling the contents of his mouth in. It was, for the most part, painless. He can feel the pill being brought to his stomach by gravity and the gyrating motion of the esophagus. The pill had a distinct taste, somewhat like how the doctors' office smells. He waits to see if he can feel any changes immediately. He cannot. He recalls reading the orange sticker on the prescription bottle suggesting he eat something with the medication for it may cause upset stomach. He figures he can risk it and refills his mug.

Back in his room, he cracks open his window and welcomes the slight summer breeze and the hum it brings with it. The neighbors' air conditioner buzzing, the ambulances rushing down 14th street to Beth-Israel, and the live music made by aspiring bands coming out of the backdoor that's been left ajar at Otto's Shrunken Head Tiki Lounge remind him that the city is awake and alive. These sounds, however loud they may be, soothe him so much that he cannot sleep without them. He turns off his alarm clock remembering that his doctor said he should stay away from work cause he may still be contagious. He peels back his sheets and fixes his pillows. He turns the lights off and squints as his eyes adjust to the moonlit room. He lies down. For the past few weeks he hasn't slept a night through. Recently it was because of his throat, other nights because he drank too much, or because he was too high, but most nights it was because he was thinking of her. Tonight, he tries his best to fight it off.

He draws breath â€" he quickly surrenders to his thoughts.

He sleeps with his cell phone in his hand, just in case she calls. She had been calling him late at night, 3am or 4am, asking if she could come over. He would never say no to her. Her routine was always the same. When she climbs the stairs up to his apt, when she walks into his room, she would open the top drawer of his dresser and scans its contents until she finds her favorite boxers. She knows exactly where they are and he never wears them so that they're always there for her. He would watch her silhouette as she'd undress in the dark, first taking off her earrings, unhooking her necklace, slipping out of her shirt, then her bra, pulling down her jeans, then her underwear, and slowly she'd step into the light blue paisley boxers. She would stand at the foot of the bed for a moment and say, "You know... I'm gonna marry you someday," then circle the bed as he rolls over, knowing what side she prefers. She would sink in and slide her way between his arm and his chest. It's her 'nook' and they fit. Her skin feels good to him. Not just softness or temperature, but chemically, biologically (or whatever), the reaction that occurs at the touch of his skin to hers is just perfect. They would always sleep holding hands.

Most nights they would fall asleep only to wake in the early morning light, warm, entangled, and wet. He would touch her. She would take him in. Recently, she'd only want him to enter her from behind laying facedown in the bed. It's the way she really likes it. He would reluctantly obey, although it frustrates him that he cannot kiss her in this position. He often wonders if there are reasons why she prefers that position other than the fact that he always makes her cum that way. He wonders if she still always cums with him.

He takes a deep breath â€" she hasn't called in a month.

He used to keep a bedside journal to write down his thoughts and the questions that inevitably arose as he coaxed himself to sleep. He used to write in it the dreams that he could remember, but it's been a few months since he last did that. He tries to remember if his dreams will be affected by the medication and he recalls that one of the other antibiotics he has taken gave him A Light in the Atticâ€"esque dreams. He keeps checking his phone. He wants a cigarette. He loves smoking in bed. But he knows he shouldn't, at least not now. He concentrates on his breathing. He concentrates on his throat and swears he can feel it opening up now that the swelling caused by his own immune systems' feeble attempt at killing the bacteria has already subsided to the selective poison flowing in his veins. He imagined his blood cells, empty vessels, traveling through the tiniest of passages in the stomach and the intestines picking up the poison meant for one thing and one thing only. They carry it around the body, marching at the omniscient beat of the heart for the rest of the organs to see like a funeral procession, as they solemnly sing, "this could be for you." Their song carried him off to sleep.

He awoke abruptly. Coming in and out of consciousness, his mind scrambled to pick up where its wandering had left it. His blood cells traveled the whole of his body with just one firm clench from his heart, which was now slamming against his ribs. He felt pressure on him. It was a familiar weight. He gasped for air as he struggled to sit up in bed. Hands on the small of his back pulled him up enveloping him in an embrace. The hands were soft, warm, but most of all, comforting. He let out a faint sigh of relief, purging what he had not been able to let go of. "Did you come?" she whispered in his ear.

"Yes..." he said and he exhaled.