Randall's
He is sitting at the sushi counter, it's 10:30 at night. He is alone. He has a slight frame, is fairly conservatively dressed, and keeps to himself. Before him is a small, single serving shrimp cocktail. The shrimp is fairly old and is slightly gamey. He eats it anyway. His body language is an exercise in defeat. His timing is a window into American dissociative entropy and decay.
I feel pity for him even though he neither knows nor cares to know.
I imagine he will catch the last bus home. He will turn on the TV, watch a little Maury, fall asleep on the couch, fully dressed, cock in his hand, and awake tomorrow and notice the cocktail sauce on his shirt.
In his mind he will hear the same song that plagues me as I write this. The Girl From Ipanema.
These are the sort of things that drive me mad on this Tuesday night, maybe even on any other night, in this my meandering life.
Maybe he pities me?
I feel pity for him even though he neither knows nor cares to know.
I imagine he will catch the last bus home. He will turn on the TV, watch a little Maury, fall asleep on the couch, fully dressed, cock in his hand, and awake tomorrow and notice the cocktail sauce on his shirt.
In his mind he will hear the same song that plagues me as I write this. The Girl From Ipanema.
These are the sort of things that drive me mad on this Tuesday night, maybe even on any other night, in this my meandering life.
Maybe he pities me?
2 Comments:
I read a similar short story just the other day. It's interesting that people like thinking about other people, judging them, or just making a story up in your mind about what their life must be like. And then the coming back and thinking what they might be thinking about you was nice.
Though I kind of wished you had capitalized American Dissociative Entropy and Decay. Maybe even had a reference to it like it was some kind of book.
short and bittersweet (tangy like the sauce?)...that's the way i like 'em.
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home