– tony.espino –

a human. for now.

24.16 | july

chronicle of an unreliable voice

Folder 13

The lady in the drive thru speaks perfect fuzz.
“May I have a coffee?”
She speaks in tongues.
“May I have a coffee?”
Her walkie talkie fades in and out. I turn my radio off. Maybe there’s an interference.
“May I have a coffee? Please.” I say please this time hoping it will solve the technical difficulties.
She yells something through a sock.
I pick up the tin can phone.
“May I have a coffee?” I don’t say please. If I have to use a tin can phone I’m not using manners.
“May I have a coffee or what?”

The Phantom tiptoed by the kitchen where The Trenchcoat in High Heels tended to a whistling kettle. The front door was open. So he went out. He spent hours hiking down the driveway with his flat feet and weepy face. Many times he looked back with the thought of returning. Returning to Death and the rest of Art. But he knew it was just his loneliness talking. Instead he carried along a branch and decorated his forearm with tiny incisions to keep him company. Friends that would stay with him forever. The night fell and so did he against the trunk of a dying tree. The body was tired, but the brain carried on. The burning thought that prevailed keeping The Phantom on the brink of sleep: How old is the moon?

I pull up to the window. She hands me a coffee.
“Thank you.”
She hands me another coffee.
“No. I just ordered one coffee.”
She hands me another coffee.
“I think you have the wrong order.”
She hands me another coffee.
“It was just one coffee.”
She hands me another coffee.
“Is there a way to stop you from giving me coffee?”
She hands me another coffee.
“I’m not this thirsty.”
She hands me another coffee.
“Is this a joke?”
She hands me another coffee.
“How am I supposed to drink all this?”
She hands me a straw.




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This entry was posted on July 26, 2016 by in art, books, comedy, fiction, writers, writing and tagged , , , , , , .

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