scrape, he scrapes. he sits in his chair and scrapes one nail along the arm. the arm of the chair, wood shavings on his thigh, on the floor. everyone once in awhile, he gets his bearings, grips his hands, pushes off and up. he steadies himself, shuffles about. he makes it to the bathroom, the faucet leaks, a trace of rust circles the drain. he pisses, it hurts, he shakes it at the end.
we all shake at the end. we all grimace and bite the insides of our mouths. he still has good molars back there, where he chews it up and swallows because there isn’t enough spit left.