Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The man with the mustache was launching an invasion into everyone within grabbing distance’s personal space. He grabbed knees, slapped backsides, and pinched cheeks until he’d successfully made the entire room uncomfortable. People were posturing like folding chairs- curling up into themselves, flattening against walls, trying to escape further molestation. One woman, a loud, vehement feminist, turned and announced that she preferred her tush unfondled. The man laughed like she’d told the best joke he’d heard in weeks and attempted another swat, at which she scuttled from the room, stabbing each tile with stilettos and cursing under her breath.

“I’m sure you’ll find this dish to your liking. It’s one of our most unusual and highly requested- for the more cultured diner,” the sides of his mouth twitched with pride, tiny beads of sweat ran to meet each other and dived in enthusiastic rivulets.

“I’m sure we will. Thank you very much.”

The silver top of the dish was lifted, the shine of condensation mirroring the shine of his bloated red face. On the tray, nestled snuggly in a bed of garnish, another face stared back at the eager diners blankly.

“Would you like any dipping sauce? Perhaps more wine?”

“No, thank you.”

“Very well. Enjoy.”

The couple shared a mildly amused glance. As if they had never eaten human before. As if they were just some poor, common Joe and Jane Anybody.

He began to cut enthusiastically, carving off an ear. “Did someone make their order to Van Gogh?” he chuckled, his crisp white cuffs turning scarlet.

“Oh, you,” she smiled, taking the ear from him and taking a dainty bite before leaning forward for a kiss. When she pulled away, both of their lips shone juicy and red in the candlelight.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Everyone had seen it grow legs and walk off. Some pronounced it a miracle. Some took pictures (but would later find all of their film overexposed). Some cried. Some went straight home and stayed in bed for weeks, the covers pulled over their heads and the blinds firmly shut, much to the chagrin of their spouses and children. Everyone agreed that it was a waste of a pot roast.

Friday, August 7, 2009

He pushed his icy, mittened hand into hers.

“I can’t even feel my hand, it’s so cold!” She joggled their clasped hands in awe.

“Shut up, this is your fault.” Her flowered sneakers were dragging now, he was propelling both of them forward through the slush.

“Hey…hey John? I need to blow my nose.”

“I told you, shut up!”

He dragged her forward a few more steps before glancing back. She'd begun batting at her streaming red nose with her free hand, not doing much of anything but leaving a shiny trail of evidence on her sweater sleeve.

“Jesus, just, here, just… use this,” he stopped and wriggled a hand from his mitten, handing it back and beginning to pull her forward again in a fluid motion.

Bumping along behind, she blew her nose noisily. “Here you go,” she sniffled, passing the mitten back.

“I don’t want that back! You keep that! You’re really dumb sometimes, you know that?”

Tuesday, August 4, 2009


I have been a neglectful blog parent and will get back to this shortly.