July 2, 2018An anomalous crew conspired curiously like the pearled iridescence of the leucistic monocled cobra under a showering full moon. The mutiny began like the faint hiss of the serpent assembling in symmetry with other culebras, and there, Mephistophidian in scaled oblivion, did congregate with its contriving cabal. The Me that I have always referred to as the Terribly Three, sat at a round black marble table, and whirred in tongues centered in the middle of six white walls. Cold and sterile, silent with peril—what expediency lied beyond the adamantine gates? What cubed and shifting labyrinthine lasciviousness must lock itself in rows in order for you to confess?
“Honey…?”
”What?”
”I was talking to you?”
”Did you not see me in thought?”
”I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“
”No, it’s quite all right. What is it?
”The waiter is waiting for you to tell him if more pepper on your salad is ok.”
”The waiter is waiting…and waiting…and…”
∞
