Herniated Truth

You moaned and writhed in the bed across the aisle. The furry watermelon that is your gut shook and rolled between the open flaps of your hospital gown. Two little pills from the doctor later and you were relaxed, enough so to skip an introduction and dive right into the floor plan of your second house in El Salvador and recent job offer in Iceland. I nodded as you looked at my swollen hand and were reminded of your own being sliced nearly clean off by a piece of plate glass as a child. Then, spurred by the passing of a shapely woman in yoga pants, you shared many lurid details of past lovers and a recent personal victory over Hepatitis C. After a declaration of your annual income I was torn between a strange appreciation of what I hoped was honesty and a mild intrigue of its obvious embellishments. Then a nurse came and told me something I could be sure of: “It’s broken.”