A Helpful Leaf

A Helpful Leaf

         He scans left, then right, and worries. Sweat seeps out from his scalp; beads of small drops merge into a larger drop until its weight tumbles the salty saturation towards his lower extremities. The moist sensation stops his worries only to start panic. His eyes shut, but the darkness suggests nothing. A mosquito tries to be friendly on a mound of his pale skin but the mosquito's legs do not make an impression and flees full of blood. The lids of his eyes proceed to open slowly, and blurry vision follows a light liquid suction. A series of blinks secures focus except for an irritating eyelash that lingers until it concedes to gravity.
         He thinks of a rhyme then hopes for a safe number of leaves. It is safe.
         Reaching with his right hand in an awkward lean of muscular balance, his hand closes on the bright leaf. Its stiff, sand paper texture burdens his hand and his mind with a greater concern. A gentle wind caresses his exposed skin. The problem becomes more apparent with wetness from the passing wind. A waft of processed beans reminds him of last night's dinner. His sunburned face crinkles. It didn't taste like shit last night.
         He widens his stance. His left foot bulldozes a small amount of debris, he shifts some weight onto his right foot, and his right hand sinks into the soil to help. A warm slushy paste between his bulbous butt cheeks unsettles. With the leaf in his left hand, he reaches behind himself to wipe.
         Cautiously expunging his most sensitive area, scrapes of pain and cleansing follow the collection of the repulsive ooze from his crevasse onto the leaf. He drops the leaf to pull up his pants. Before walking away, he looks down at the leaf. It wears his fecal matter and blood over its radiant orange. The heinous smell lingers all day in the air burning his nose hairs but attracting happy flies.





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