And the days slipped by like hours, and the hours like days, and the heat melted her bones like butter, and every nerve was active with discomfort, and yet she also felt nothing.
So she turned to her past, who was sitting in a patchy, musty chair smoking a moist and chewed cigar and dampening the velour fabric with his sweat.
"Why don't you get up from that chair?" she pleaded, desperate.
"Why should I?" he grunted, pointing out the window that was wavy and moving with the intense sun. "Besides," he continued, shifting ponderously in his seat, shaking the floor with his mass, "you won't let me."
She could see the sores prolonged contact with fabric had worn into his gray skin, and since the sight of them made her feel pity, which was the first time she felt anything in a long while, she went to get some salve. "Here," she said, dabbing the salve on his wounds with a cloth. "This should make you more comfortable."
After she had covered every sore, her past turned from gray to a sickly green that glowed and pulsated like the waves in the window. His eyes took on a new light, he seemed to increase in size and weight, and he sat upright in his chair.
"I think I'll stay much longer now," he decided, as she wept at her mistake.
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