His black button eyes stare up into the falling rain. Days full of downpours have flattened his fur into clumpy, brown tatters. But his stuffing is still intact, so he still looks like what he was: someone’s teddy bear. A dead someone’s teddy bear, the centerpiece of a roadside shrine.
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Why are there small dogs? I mean really small dogs. Smaller-than-cats small dogs. The kind of creatures women with bleached blond hair and fake tans carry in tote bags. They always seem so upset and nervous... the dogs, not the blonds. As if they know they should not be traveling in a tote bag. Their weepy little eyes beg to put them out of their tote bag misery. Perhaps they know life as an accessory is no life at all.
The waitress serving my coffee is wearing cat's eye glasses. She smiles and pours and her bright red lips part to reveal a smudge of lipstick on her front teeth. As if she'd bitten her lip and a single drop of blood stained her teeth. No.... as if she's a lioness who's just brought down a gazelle. Should you tell a stranger she has something on her teeth; that you can see the gazelle blood when she smiles?
There are sidewalk cracks under my feet. "Step on a crack, break your mother's back." Since my mother died long ago, will her bones crumble with my crack stomping? Some days, I walk only on cracks.
In the dark, navy blue and black look alike, which is why I 'm wearing two different color socks. If I spend the day standing up... no one will notice.
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AuthorCharlie Sandors is a peculiar young man with an even more peculiar hobby of attending funerals and delivering eulogies for people he does not know. ArchivesCategories |