Sunday Stories: sketch for Q

This is not really a story. But it is a Sunday. The color is red.

I was driving. When was I not driving? I’m Q, he said. I am I, stopped stammering. Take it easy, Guido, I’m not here. He said. What I wanted to do is go to the bathroom. Cars have no bathrooms. That’s a pain in the ass, that is. Or should I look over to the left? Just look ahead Q opined seemingly already tired of being confined to saying stuff. It was the universal thing to do, for the English looking to the left when talking to someone whilst driving would be odd. Quite odd. Or at least a tad odd. The fact of the matter was that I felt uncomfortable. A fact of the matter you might already have inferred from the bathroom bit.

Let me break the silence, Q said.

After a while I said – just checking, you know – I hated my scrotum shriveling like a prune. Q laughed.  Look at me like The Terminator, your projection into the future projected back into the present. Have you been studying me, I asked without a question mark. Sure he had. Who hadn’t? Some comfort that was. Before you get a hard-on, Qs (notation is everything), you might ask yourself: what kind of a study object? Does it matter? Matter matters. Matters matter.

Madness is what it was. I focused on the matter at hand: getting there. 250 were waiting. But for what? For me?

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