Psychic Boy lives in a corner of my mind. There he huddles, introverted and fœtal, playing with lint from the wool turtleneck he wears pulled up past his nose. He rarely comes out of his shell, but when he does he's a consternating conundrum of a pain-in-the-ass
"Stand up and catch that paperclip," he said to me suddenly today. Then he sneezed raucously. It was the kind of sneeze that rings out like the peeling of a huge bell--you feel it vibrating in your stomach and your spine and beneath the souls of your shoes, and it commands every ounce of your attention. Is there anything more annoying?
"Gezund." I said. "Tight. What paperclip? And doesn't that sweater itch your nose and make you sneeze?"
"I need my turtleneck," he said. "It protects me from dust in the air."
"What's so bad about a little dust in the air?"
"I'm allergic," he whined. "It makes me sneeze."
I snorted. "Now what's this about a damned paperclip?"
"AAAAACHOOOO! Now stand up and catch it!"
I jumped startled out of my seat, bumping my desk and sending a cup of pencils and pens and paperclips flying. One paperclip arced through the air toward the floor and I caught it reflexively
"That paperclip," said Annoying Boy.
"But if I didn't stand up, I wouldn't have had to catch it!"
"Nooooope, that's not it. You just don't understand these things..."
Sneezy Boy curled up in the corner again, unravelled a loose thread from his sweater and twined it around his fingers to play a game of cat's cradle.
"Set fire to your umbrella next Thursday," he said.
But by then I'd regained my wits and wasn't listening to him anymore. Even if he is always right.
Originally published on the Shore