Nathan Logan

“Fritz is the name I gave to all my dachshunds,”
says the dermatologist sitting next to me. The dachshund’s eyes
are howling something not Fritz. He doesn’t look like a Fritz.
“Even the girls,” he says, “I named them Fritz.”
Something still feels off. A flight attendant stands in the aisle,
her hair swaying like wheat, despite lack of wind.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asks.
The dermatologist asks for some water for Fritz.
My eyes are dry. The reading light has gone nova.