Atlas rolls his own


I lifted the world off his shoulders and said “Sit. Sit awhile.”

He sighed, he stretched, he said, “What? Now? Sit?”

“Yes, now.” I handed him a bag of tobacco and some zigzags and he sat down to roll.

“Stiff,” he said, stretching his neck and shoulders.

“Reap what you sew,” I said, sotto voce.  I am a font of wisdom.

“Uh? What’s that?” He was looking at me from under his eyebrows. Eyebrows that hadn’t been groomed since the azure seas of the Mediterranean were 15 degrees cooler than they are now. I handed him a ginger soda. He took a swig.

“Zippy,” he observed. Smacking his lips, he raised the bottle to his lips again.

“Wait, hang on,” He pulled his smart phone out of his cargo pocket and looked at it. Texting. Even the gods can’t get a break, I thought.

“Tales of woe. Harbingers of doom. Falsely attributed quotes. I have to go,” he told me. He handed me a cigarette and quickly rolled another one for himself. Lit it, smoked it down in two deep sucks, stood up, twisted his back, did a couple of squats.

“Sure you won’t just quit?” I asked. No answer. I lifted the world and set it on his waiting shoulders.

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