Coin
I pinch the little brown coin between my thumb and index finger. Feeling the sticky metallic dust of copper finish — the grime of a thousand transactions gosh knows where doing gosh knows what. The indentation of Abe Lincoln’s head, bringing me back to a patriotic feeling — conflicted with the fear of capitalist excess.
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Harvey Dent’s face flashes in my mind. Laying supine on his belly, with the left side of his face smashed down to the ground, while the gas glug glugs out of the tanks. The smell of propane fills the air. Rachel’s voice on the phone — far away. Fear blanketed by I’m strong for you security. The zoom of batman’s big tank richocheting off the streets and skyscrapers of Gotham. Rushed air filling his nostrils, bouncing around his mask. Metallic leather hemming and hawing, stretching with each movement of his body, carrying the weight of a world gone mad on his shoulders.
Gulping, he swallows some dry saliva. 4 minutes and 20 seconds until Rachel disintegrates with one final joke.
