Following is the continuation of the short story named “The Crocodile”, written by J. G. Bas and posted on the previous post, about an imaginary crocodile and a man.
I was a bit irritated by his dark contort of saurian with an open mouth, so I applied a bitch slap to his side. I thought I heard a woman’s voice scream and I chose to sneak away, trampling over seated spectators among a growing sound of an unfriendly, angry, mumbling crowd.
I do not understand insomnia. I usually just go to bed, I lie there and sort of pass out. One might even argue that I do not wake up but I resurrect instead, while cursing that I have go to work. What annoys me is that, on Sundays, when I could enjoy a bit of more sleep, I simply don’t. I wake up automatically, at dawn and I remain fresh, lucid, alert, awaiting the sound of the newspaper, the paperboy slides under the door. Then I get up, pick it up and go back to bed to read about stuff I do not care about. It has always been that way ever since I can remember.
Actually, not always; no. For almost a year now, I have had to endure the visits of the crocodile that appears Sunday mornings, along with the newspaper. As I read, he is near my feet, lying placidly, sleepy, yawning from time to time and purring like a cat. The idea came to me while looking at a printed photograph in the newspaper of a few children at the zoo.
It must have been some sort of a mental detonation, because, no sooner I thought of it that the crocodile jumped and stared at me suspiciously and expectantly. But I pushed the feelings of pity away.