CONVERSING IN A RESTAURANT
- 2 days ago
- 1 min read
By Elliot Chester
“Hi, how’re you?” the waitress asks, assuming I’m ok.
“Hello, I’m good,” is what she thinks I’m really going to say.
“I don’t indulge in pleasantries, nor superficial shit.” She clicks
her pen, and flicks her hair, then blushes, just a bit. “I speak my
mind, that’s what I’ve learnt, I’ll state just how I feel. You’re
mercilessly unprepared to listen to my spiel. I suffer from
insomnia, my eyes are always sore, ‘cos every night I peel figmental
shadows off the floor. I have a gambling habit too, just look into
my eyes; you’ll see the spin of rolling dice and bankruptcy’s the
prize. My hunger’s rather miniscule, I’ll pass upon the menu; these
villains have a strict regime and grief’s their favourite venue. I bet you
wish you’d never asked. I’m deep in disarray.” I take a breath,
then give it back. “So, how are you today?”