I was seated at the counter in the Liberty diner. Fred occupied the swivel seat to my right. Whenever Fred is high on his pain-killing medication, he slurps his chicken noodle soup and sings at the same time. A waitress viciously scolded him for making a mess of the counter.
Suddenly, quietly, Fred, (especially high that night), became transfixed by a napkin dispenser’s reflection of a solitary noodle clinging to his beard.
Donna slid into the seat to my left. Looking unsympathetically at Fred she mumbled how unfortunately, it is we who make our own reality.
Believing Donna, I disappeared.
Suddenly, quietly, Fred, (especially high that night), became transfixed by a napkin dispenser’s reflection of a solitary noodle clinging to his beard.
Donna slid into the seat to my left. Looking unsympathetically at Fred she mumbled how unfortunately, it is we who make our own reality.
Believing Donna, I disappeared.
