Mr. Lemmon

The air was crisp. The wind rustled the sparse leaves overhead as Johnathan Lemmon dug his chin deeper into the scarf he had wrapped around his neck as he left the house that morning. By now his morning routine had fallen into the background of his consciousness, a blur of repetition that had been slowly and carefully crafted throughout the autumn months only to become entirely unnoticeable. Jelly on toast. Keys in pocket. Jacket on. Scarf around neck. Front door locked. Walk to work.

His routine had never failed him, and with no reason to inspect it closer, Mr. Lemmon let his instincts guide him out into the crisp autumn air each morning, forgetting each step almost as it happened. He had developed a comfortable inattention, and ultimately, it would be this very same inattention that would place his foot in the unusually large crack that had appeared in the sidewalk the previous night, this same inattention that would keep his hands in his jacket pockets until it was too late to break his fall. He had almost begun to notice something amiss when his head met the pavement, after which he lost consciousness and stopped paying attention to much of anything.

Johnathan Lemmon began to pay attention. And what he noticed surprised him. Upon waking from his unexpected collapse, Johnathan Lemmon had become, quite remarkably, a collection of rough lemon sketches.

His morning routine would have to wait.