It was happening again. His head was dwindling, and through the wind-shield, the sight of the folk-flocked Doraisami Subway started to look like a smudged wet photograph. Shit. The nausea is resurfacing. He fished into his shirt pocket, hoping to feel the sharp edge of his last tablet strip. No?
See? I knew it. I asked her not to change the shirt. Now how the hell am I going to drive all the way to the Airport with this throbbing head of mine? I can’t even afford to stop anywhere. I’m already late for the drop. I wonder what’s been taken Shailaja so long to prepare tiffin these days…tastes the same to me…..”
The phone that hid behind the little Lord Ganesha idol on the dashboard buzzed. It was the lady who had been waiting to be dropped to the airport since the past 20 minutes.
(The above post is a part of my first short fiction series: Stranger Ways. More from the series here. Thanks!)