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Doghead

by Craig A. Strickland

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She felt polarized with excitement and fatigue, and her hot eyes suddenly brimmed with tears as they scanned the room, at the dusty wine bottles in the rack in the corner. At the tiny T.V. on the nightstand, at the refrigerator magnets; little cartoon pigs holding scraps of coupons and phone numbers. Finally, at the window, half-closed blinds revealing only the Toyota’s front wheels resting on the parking lot, five feet higher and right outside.

Something dripped under the car. Steadily. Almost – a trickle. If that was oil she had a hell of a problem.