_ Still, it breathes; still, it darts through, without moving, the shards of your thoughts; your life.
_ My life?
_ It's all you, babe.
_ Babe? Who the hell do you think you're calling babe?
_ You, babe.
The men tussle briefly, throwing haymakers and invectives. The owner looks on with disinterested fascination; he, too, understands the dynamic futility of all endeavor. He turns away as a table is overturned; someone has ordered a velour, the smoothest drink on the menu. As he grasps the handle on the machine, he thinks,
" To our actions fully; as for the fruits... let them fall where they may."
A saucer goes flying, crashing against the tile wall. It is neither saucer, nor flying, any longer. The men dust themselves off after their little dust-up.
_ Chai?
_ I think I'll have a velour.
_ Make it two.
<><><>
... Every action is both an expression and a question.
... Old man, pink gone Crayola gray, rustily blinks his eyes; it makes no sense to cry any more.
photo credit
No comments:
Post a Comment