Interstellar Puking

“Goddamn it, I didn’t bring this barf bag to puke in.” Hollister sat back and drained his milk, a thin layer of white liquid nestling in between the cracks of his lips. He tapped his fingers against the side of his desk, stabbing the edge into the palm of his hand. Lindsay just kind of looked at him. She was a little confused. There was nothing in her face that resembled either admiration or disgust. Just a dizzying confusion that circled her black globular pupils, stretched so fucking far, trying to capture everything in Hollister’s study. It was oh, fifteen feet by fifteen feet, every wall lined with hardback books. God knows how he read in here. The dim orange glow from his ceiling lamp cast more questions than light.

“If you didn’t bring the barf bag to puke in, then why did you bring it at all?” Lindsay remarked, carrying the gold tip of her pen to her lips while staring at Hollister‘s milk moustache. Hollister admired her. She didn’t feel the need to dress up but she still looked good. Professional, or something close to it. A gentleman never asks a lady his age, and although Hollister was no gentleman, he still refrained from asking. If he had to guess, he’d put her around 28. If he was right, he’d drink another glass of milk. If he was wrong, he’d drink another glass of milk.

“I brought it,” he paused, “to allow myself to see more clearly.” Lindsay eyed the white lines running along Hollister’s lips.

“And how do you suppose you’ll do that? It’s one thing to barf in a barf bag. It’s like a spiritual trip, the inner you captured in a pile. They teach you in University that puking is a way to find the metaphors for who you really are. Where the chunks are the stars and planets of the You Cosmos. And if-” Hollister cut her off.

“That’s all inane bullshit. I don’t puke into a bag to count the constellations.” His voice was careful. He caressed every word as if it were Lindsay dropped in his naked lap. “I puke because I’m sick. The rest of the time I hope to God I’m not puking. So I keep my sick bag as a reminder of my faith. Either I’m barfing up Godlessness, or I’m thanking God that I’m not puking. Since I have no use for a portable bag of chunky philosophy, I get closer to God by reminding myself that he could make me puke, but he’s not. He’s letting me sit here in my study, where I am thankful to be able to cross my legs under my desk like a six year old girl… and drink my milk. Now, if you would leave me be,” Hollister concluded, looking back down at his desk and fumbling for a pen. He scribbled at the day calendar on his desk. He hoped it looked like he was working. It didn’t. He coughed.

“Good day to you, Hollister.” The leather farted underneath her as she stood up. “I’ll be seeing you.” She stepped back out into the bright sun-lit hallway, completely alien from Hollister’s study. “Men will never understand,” she whispered to herself, a bag crinkling at the bottom of her purse. “It’s the only way off this goddamn rock and they refuse to even see it. Hahahahaha! Haaaaaahahahahahahaha!”