Why am I still here?

The clicking stops. I get a chill through the blanket and my sweater. I hate when the clicking stops; it feels like an icebox in here.

Photos. A beautiful woman. Paris, '78. London, '78. Morocco, '82. San Francisco, '84.

Who is that? Do I know her? She looks happy.

Images flash across the television. Two people talking. Unrecognizable words except '65 and sunny'. I wish I could go outside. Maybe it's warm.

Dinner will be delayed, I'm told. 5:15. When it does arrive, every part of the plate tastes the same. The dark brown chunk. The white mush. The green circles and orange squares. Salty.

I won't have but one swallow of water for fear I'll have to use the restroom. I don't want to get out of my recliner.

This must be my apartment, but I don't recognize the furniture or the people in it, bustling about. They never sit down.

How long have I been sitting here? I have pain in my legs, feet, and toes. It feels like there's lead in my blood.

I'm handed a phone. My phone, I suppose. She helps me put it to my ear. "God," she says loudly. Oh how wonderful! It's finally my time. He's finally ready for me! I feel lighter already.

"God?"

I hand the phone back. It's not my time. He's not ready for me. I feel lead in my blood again.

Why am I still here?

I stare at the television. '65 and sunny'. I wish I could go outside. Maybe it's warm.