Asylum

by Mark Wutka

"Third door on the left" said the guard, directing him down the drab hallway. The gentleman walked slowly down the hall, stopping at the door labelled "Sophisticated Neighbor" and peered in the small observation window. There she was, still in the beautiful red evening gown she had been wearing that fateful night. She looked different now, however. Her eyes were red, both from crying and from caffeine withdrawal, and her hands shook and appeared to be trying to grasp an imaginary coffee cup, filled to overflowing, with wonderful, rich-tasting TC. She glanced up at the window.

"Well! If it isn't my neighbor the cannibal!" she said, in a tone that would make PMS look like subservience.

"It wasn't what you thought," he said gently. "That was the leg of a bavarian dodo bird. I picked up the recipe while we were in Europe. I never noticed that it looked like a human hand until after you had your breakdown."

Her eyes brightened, the red seeming to fade. Her hands stopped fidgeting. She gazed at him with a loving warmth that radiated over the entire cell. He looked back at her with sparks in his eyes and coffee in his veins.

"Come on," he said, "let's get you home to a nice hot cup of fresh-brewed, full-bodied TC."