New sentence, same faded yellow bullshit.
I heard footsteps on the wet sidewalk and the sound of keys. Bare feet, a strange sound in this rain, for the summer of frolicking children was long dead. A grave tread, an off-kilter staccato riff of submissive plinks & thumps sad & autumnal as the date splashed on the screen of my cell, evaporates as soon as I turn around, the umbrella's ribs twirling drops into nothingness.
Today's special, pig in a poke, what I had for breakfast every Tuesday, what I had not ten minutes ago. I had gone around the block, passing the diner I had just left. Footfalls & jingling bearings, Mr. Jingaling in color & in black & white so good to see you, Gozer the Gozerian's keymaster wearing out its VHS stay, doors unlocked, snapshot snapshot, there's too many. Slow down! Let them linger a bit, please.
Footsteps on the wet sidewalk & the sound of keys, here & gone, there & back again. Not a ghost, because those you can see in their filmy, flimsy special effected glory. Hallelujah, maybe it was the food. I felt fine. My stomach was peaceful. Jingling keys all sound the same, there's either few or many. Yes, I know. Yet I've heard it before. Das Unheimliche. Many times, these few keys. I know them, a broken mechanical, a familiar out-of-tune tune on repeat, precision like big number karat Swiss clockwork. The diner's on the other side of the street. How I hated that jingling & how she knew it, reveling.
Yes, I know, I know. Why do I keep turning if I'm seeing nothing? I don't know.
I want to. So I keep turning.
Tectonic plates shift, attempting to catch my attention, a delivery truck vibrates blacktop to radiate crack, a cell set to rumble, the office wondering where the hell I'm at. I'll answer, but they won't hear.
Yes, a cup would be nice, the usual, why, work is fine, thanks. I wait, snapshot snapshot, more than I can handle. No matter, now I have time to slip past bars, to gaze & ogle & get lost running & falling in rolling, benumbed neurons. Free refills, Polaroid & digital, invisible carvings spread over greasy Formica, deep in fleshy, pulpy bark. I pass tick tock knowing I won't see my grimace mirrored by a grin. I bet she'd be surprised at my smile this time.
No, nothing else, thanks.