Page 33 - Self Talk

four-poster bed, swamping her child-like frame. Her outline was barely visible under the beige hospital-issue blanket. A small chest to the left of the bed held a stain- less steel tray of pill bottles and water glass with a bent straw. Parked at the foot of the bed, a folded wheelchair was partially disguised by a plaid fringed blanket.
“Hey you,” she called out in an effortless voice that broke the ice. “Come here and give me a hug.”
“Hey you, yourself,” I replied as I sat on the edge of the bed and squeezed her hand. “What's with this flower stall?”
“Now you know where my rebellious nature comes from,” she laughed. “What I wouldn't give for my futon about now. Even in my state, it's hard to sleep with all this visual stimulation.”