Copyright 2017 by Robert Hill
“What giants?” I asked.
“Those that you see there,” replied Don Quixote. “Those with the long arms, some of which are as much as two leagues in length.” The lanky old Spaniard was staring at me as if I had lost my mind rather than the other way around.
The aroma of coffee drifted past my nostrils, and I felt an incongruence to the moment; like I was in a dream and not really upon my donkey aside my master, the illustrious Don Quixote de La Mancha.
I wasn’t myself.
Then I realized it had crept upon me like a carnivorous ivy, wrapping me in its vines until I had been cocooned within its smothering leaves. There were no windmills set off in the distance before me. There was no skinny, senile man from La Mancha. I was not Sancho Panza.
I slammed the book shut, finding myself where I was when I first opened it – upon the couch, my coffee set beside me.
I took a sip, then considered for a moment, wondering – should I continue?
Then I watched as my master, Don Quixote de La Mancha, bore down upon the windmill, its wings spinning before him.