A text message at 2:36 AM woke me from a dream about a talking snake who wore a tube sock as pants. In the dim light of my phone I could see the outline of the pile of clothes on my computer chair that looked like a man sitting with his legs crossed. I might have known that his name was Charlie. It’s a common name, ill fit for a man who practices taxidermy and collects rocks from the bottoms of lakes he scuba dives.
Charlie tips his hat at me and takes a long drag of his cigarette. Charlie knows, of course, that one shouldn’t smoke lest they risk lung cancer, but Charlie has never been one to care about the time or reason of his death.
The talking snake warned me of a great flood that would submerge the city. The steady pattering of rain outside my window reminds me that I never let my cat in last night. I hear the soft mewing of my baby outside. She patiently waits for me to open the front door. I hope she can swim.