She's inching towards me. Her eyes alternate rapidly between the saucer in each hand. She's moving very slowly, as if on a tightrope. I pretend she's on a tightrope. In feathered attire. The tip of her tongue is protruding from her lips. I imagine it's the face she pulls when stirring porridge. Leering into the saucepan. Nervous and expectant. She likes porridge. She has a destination, I am it, but she has momentarily forgotten about me. I am way below the saucer, the glass balancing on said saucer, the pavement directly in front of her, the top hat, clownish faces and various tamed beasts. Once she reaches her destination, she smiles with relief. I instantly realise something is amiss. "Where's the morsel at?" I ask anxiously. "What do you mean you have to pay for your morsel?". I look at the neighbouring table. They aren't even the good kind of morsel. They have raisins in. In this city the coffee is great everywhere. You base your choice of coffee shop on the sugary morsel that accompanies your hot beverage. Amaretti biscuits were something of a treat before I ventured here. Now I will walk 20 minutes out of my way to receive a chocolate filled crispy tube rather than one of those tedious has-beens. Today we have no morsel and it pains me. I vow never to darken this big top flap again.
No comments:
Post a Comment