Slate Gray Slacks & A Black Button Up

You sigh as you pour yourself a drink— whiskey, on the rocks, from the glass decanter (it was your dad’s). Another work week done— deals made, negotiations settled, fires put-out.

You move to your pristine, Lawson style sofa— the light granite-colored cushions hardly moving as you take your seat.

You pull your phone from your pocket and open the dating app. The charming icon hovering for a moment before revealing the homepage, a smiling woman in her thirties flashing bright teeth back up at you. You swipe left.

Next: a demure redhead. Left again.

Then: a woman with long dark hair that intrigues you. She isn’t smiling. She isn’t quite expressionless… she’s just, staring. You study her photo as she looks up at you through pixels and aluminosilicate glass. Something about her looks like she might ruin your life. You swipe right.

The app chimes happily at your match as a message conversation opens up. You type first. She responds immediately. You continue back and forth, half-intrigued, half-looking for an escape from the hellish workweek.

Cell in one hand waiting for a reply, drink in the other, you take a sip from your glass, ice clinking against it softly as you bring it to your lips. You make an ahh sound at the familiar taste of smoke.

Your screen lights up and you smile faintly at the text that comes through: a photo of a tan and white dog. You look around the room— the unblemished cream area rug that sits atop the cherry wood floor. You imagine a dog running around the place. You wince.

You decide to unmatch the woman before taking another sip. You lock your phone, screen going black, as you lean back against the sofa and sigh. 

Another sip. You lick your lips. Hmm. What’s that? An unfamiliar texture. You put the phone down a moment and brush your thumb across your lips, bringing it away to find a single hair: it’s white, and short, but rather thick. You frown, rubbing your thumb and finger together to dismiss the curiosity. You place the blemish on the side table to be discarded later.

You bring the glass to your lips once more. You love the slight burn that coats your throat. Your phone lights up with another message from the app. You move to pick up the phone again when you detect a rough texture in the back of your mouth. You frown as you see the picture of the same woman you just unmatched. You unmatch her again. You make a noise to clear your throat, but the coarse sensation remains. You try again— ahem!

Suddenly the feeling in the back of your throat is becoming an issue. It feels like threads gathering, like a ball of yarn is unraveling in your esophagus. Now you’re beating your chest with an open palm, willing the growing thing to come up and out. It remains. You begin to sweat, face growing red, veins engorged— the mass is cutting off your airway. 

Your glass tumbles to the floor with a clink and a thud. You collapse from the couch onto the floor, on hands and knees, as you struggle to expel the anomaly. You wonder if any of your neighbors will hear you. But the sound of your choking is muffled, the walls soundproof— you liked it that way. 

Then you see the light of your phone brighten slightly as another message comes through, and you reach to open it. This time, on the screen, you see a photo of a voodoo doll. It’s dressed in a black button up and slate gray slacks just like you are. Without eyes, its mouth is open and stuffed with what looks like dog fur.

You drop the phone in anger and fear as you begin to cough violently and pound your chest and clutch at your neck.

You think of all the work that still needs to be done on Monday— preparing for the merger next month, the business stats your analysts still haven’t sent over, the intern’s proposal you need to shut down. It wasn’t your time yet, it couldn’t be. There was so much left to do, so much left to accomplish…

Finally—blissfully— you feel the obstruction dislodge, and you begin to cough up something scratchy, soft, and wet. You expel one last saliva-drenched lump, breathing heavily as you stare down at the mass now soiling your cream rug. It’s tan and white and…

 A hairball?