Rib Angst

I have a cracked rib. It sits like a shard of glass in my chest, brittle and painful and invisible to the human eye. The story is less exciting than it sounds. I fell off my bike in the middle of the night, more sober than anyone will believe. I flew over my handlebars and smacked into tram tracks. It hurt. A week later, it hurt even more. I have been staggering around the house moaning and groaning like an old man, breathing in sharply through my teeth and then instantly regretting it. People I talk to give me sympathetic smiles and tell me that I must be more careful on my bicycle in the future. It annoys me.

I sat in the doctor's waiting room for 40 minutes, attempting to read an Ernest Hemingway book while a pair of obese English twins sat across from me and talked about how one of them had crabs. The girl was taking large swigs from a bottle of Pepsi and the boy, whose hair was dyed platinum blonde and stood straight up like a half built house, played with his nose ring. Both had slittly eyes and wore identical Houndstooth wristbands. Neither of them could fit properly on the row of waiting room chairs. In the corner, a harried mother was having a clipped phone conversation about swimming lessons while her two year old ripped the pages out of a magazine.

The doctor wasn't much help. He told me to be more careful riding my bike in the future and that there was nothing really to worry about except the possibility of puncturing a lung. He wrote me out a prescription for some high voltage painkillers which would make me constipated but also help me sleep. The tiny, angry woman at the chemist gave me a shifty look when I handed over the prescription and told me that this was strong stuff and that it would make me constipated. I told her about my broken rib. She told me that I should be more careful riding my bike in the future.

Painkillers are kicking in. Elaine out.