by Brad Rose

Like a phantom limb, I pay people to have fun on my behalf. If it’s done right, eventually, you get used to it. Whenever the music is as friendly as a pastel trench of twitching pit vipers, I’m perfectly comfy dancing inside my comfort zone. After all, veterinarians are animals, too. In fact, now that the investigators have finished investigating themselves, self-congratulations are completely uncalled for. It’s not the buttons you push that matter, it’s the buttons you don’t push. By the way, my second cousin, Mona, swears it was that abandoned crucifix-shaped swimming pool that made her quit drinking. She says that since her virtual baptism, she can cross herself without using her hands. She’s happier than a bushel of invisible magicians at an illusionists’ convention, although I’m not sure whether her life-like sobriety is a hack or a trick. Like they say, any excuse in a storm. Hey, you don’t think those are my headlights up ahead, do you? Yeah, the bright ones shining on the magnetic palms. For a minute there, the trees looked so real as they leaned against one another, they nearly fooled me into thinking that opposites attract.