Read Online Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus - Free Book Online

painting.’
    ‘You can’t go home to return the painting, Jerry,’ my figment says, glancing over her shoulder at the police. ‘They’ll arrest you.’
    ‘Just get out of my head,’ I say, ‘and everything will be fine.’
    The grumpy waitress comes over again. Her nametag reads ‘VERA’.
    ‘Whatcha need?’ Vera asks, pen ready, not looking up from her little white notepad.
    ‘Just a coffee,’ I say. ‘Maybe some bread.’
    ‘We don’t serve bread,’ she says. ‘We serve san’wiches.’
    ‘Fine. Just a bologna sandwich with ketchup then.’
    Vera lets out a little ‘All riiight’ as she scrawls my order in short little lines across her pad. ‘And what else?’
    ‘That’s it,’ I say.
    ‘I already got your order, big spender. What about you, girlie? What can I get for you?’ And Vera, she looks right at my figment. She looks right at my imaginary friend; my psychotic delusion; the bane of my existence, and she asks it what it would like for dinner .
    ‘Nothing for me,’ it answers.
    ‘Both big spenders, you two,’ Vera says and plods away.
    What. The. Fuck.
    And my figment, she stares, trying to comprehend the look on my face. Her black raven’s hair. Her mutilated ear and pale skin. The girl I’ve seen off and on for the last few weeks. The one I dreamt about years ago. The one I’ve dreamt about for weeks again. She studies me .
    She tilts her head a little. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’
    ‘How can that waitress see you?’ I say, as if speaking for the first time. ‘You aren’t real .’
    Then my imaginary friend, she says, ‘Are you a fool? I’m as real as you.’
    ‘No you’re not.’ And I pick up the little ceramic dish full of artificial sweeteners and, one by one, I toss the packets at my figment. To my amazement, they don’t go right through her and hit the woman sitting in the next booth. A pink Splenda bounces off my figment’s nose. And for the first time I notice a few blackheads on it. A blue Sweet-It hits her chest. And now I can smell the dank musk of the old hoodie she wears. A yellow Nutri-Sweet catches her in the eye.
    ‘Stop it!’ she shouts, rubbing her eye. It waters a little bit and a tiny stream flows down her cheek. Her voice rises as she asks what’s the matter with me. This is when the woman sitting in the next booth gets up and leaves, but not before casting a nasty glance.
    Vera returns with my coffee. ‘Can’t ’ave you two horsing around. Gonna have to leave if you do.’
    I point to my figment. ‘You can see her?’
    ‘Oh, deary,’ Vera addresses my figment, ‘you like ’em weird, don’t you, hun?’ And she plods away again.
    I look at the stream of water trickling from my figment’s eye. And I think of every science show I’ve seen on TV. They all say water is essential for life. Without it, no organism can live. None can be real. So I set the sweeteners down and cautiously reach across the table and extending my index finger, I hover it in front of my figment’s face. And in this position, I look like I’m ET healing Elliott.
    My figment recoils, flattening her chin closer to her neck as she squints at my finger so close to her face. Then there’s a jerk of revulsion as I dart my finger forward and dip the tip of it into the little stream of water on her cheek. She’s practically cross-eyed as she follows my retreating finger with a drop of her tear on it. I press it between my thumb and index finger, spreading it over the ridges of my fingerprint. It glistens like dew. Then I bring the tear to my tongue and taste it. I taste my figment’s tear and it’s salty and warm.
    My mouth gapes. ‘How are you real?’ I say. But instead of answering, my figment notices the woman who left the booth behind us is now speaking to the cops at the counter. The cops, they glance at us but my figment gives a big fake everything-is-fine-here smile and the cops return to their dinners.
    Then pain suddenly shoots through my hand. My