My superpower is telling stories
Driving along the lonely road, he considered the conversation earlier in the cafe.
Daisy- the waitress working the breakfast shift mentioned- as she does almost every day- that their eggs were the freshest in town. He hated eggs, they came out of the butts of chickens, like calcified turds.
He shared this opinion with her.
Read moreThe lizards were gathered outside their door. What had they done to upset them? Was it her? Did she fail to heed his warnings? Over and over he explained how things work here; it wasn’t like at home.
We must follow the rules of this new place.
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He woke. Watched the dancing lights on wall.
Screen was on. Screen was always on.
He sat up. “Black. Warm.†A warm cup of Black appeared on the table beside him.
He sipped. He did not ponder, nor contemplate. He sipped and sat, eyes vacant.
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“I don’t think that’s it at all.” She said.
She scowled at the paint sample against the wall of the study.
He sighed. The fiftieth sigh against the hundredth paint chip from the builder’s supply store. That’s not a bad ratio, he thought to himself. I am handling this dreadful plebeian drama rather well.
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