Celled
One day a couple of maids came around and cleaned the toilets and sprinkled some scents that smelled awfully good.
That evening when dinner was thrown into the cell, he couldn’t eat a morsel. The air was fresh and smelled so good. He was abruptly angry and threw away the food into the toilet bowl and flushed. There was no water. He was amused.
He watched his inmate growl and dig into his food. Besides growling, he was a silent man.
How can you eat? He demanded of his growling silent inmate.
Silence.
I mean, the air is so perfect, it makes me sick. Doesn’t it bother you?
Silence.
He missed the strong stench of urine and feces that burnt their nostrils and garnished ample appetite in some strange ways. Frustrated, he cursed the maids.
His inmate spoke sometimes. Those times he wondered if he or his inmate was crazy.
Why am I here? His inmate once demanded.
I don’t know. You tell me.
Tell you what?
Why you are here.
Why should I tell you?
I don’t know.
What?
It was frustrating. It was the frustration that amused him. Without frustration there was no amusement. And yet, it was amusement that frustrated him.
