ouroboros

I throw a canned soda in a trash bin and it spawns into groups of four, then eight, then twelve, and then my mind whirls from the mushrooming cans of soda strewn on the street. My tingling fingers spur racing heartbeats. This is a heart attack! Call the ambulance! It’s a stroke! My arms are numb, and I feel my face askew. Recall the symptoms: raise your hands—yes, in this street, are you even listening! Alright, now smile. Is the other side of your lips droopy? No. Can you spell your name backward. Yes. So, it isn’t a stroke. Or is it? No. What is it then? Think. Come on, think! But I’m thinking! Five blooming palm trees, four bumps of mosquito bites on my elbow, three honks—the soda cans are still popping like pregnant frogs spewing tadpoles, and waves of sodas are now in view. My throat constricts, pinprick needles poking like tiny stingers. Please, calm down. My sister tugs the hem of my shirt, the back of her palm wiping beads of sweat trickling down my temples. Please, calm down. I’m calm! It’s these goddamn cans! I have no color, my lips are blue. I can’t breathe. It’s asphyxiation! Get the EpiPen! It’s not an allergic reaction. I’m not allergic to anything. Or am I? Please, calm down. My sister shakes me, and I feel a pinch on my arm. The cans tumble out of view. A nurse pops beside her. Please, calm down. But I’m calm. I’m so calm I haven’t said a single word.