The girl's friend is here. Well, more ex-boyfriend than friend, since you haven't been aware of any communication between them for some time. At present, you staring, without real purpose, at a pair of faces painted on the wall above and behind you; your head is tilted back to such a degree, you believe that any passerby would not be able to distinguish the features of your own. The figures on the wall, a plane now horizontal to your line of sight, are malformed. This is not the artistic kind of malformity, but the kind immediately noted as a downfall of its creator, much like the sight of a physically disabled person or animal. Boring of this stressful new vantage, you rest your head back upon its shoulders, and survey your current setting. The place is not unfamiliar. Its Starbucks without armchairs. Between this and the girl's ex-boyfriend's presence, you won't be returning. But you aren't leaving just yet.
"After all," you think, "I just paid two fucking dollars for this coffee."
3 comments:
Man, you and Starbucks don't seem to get along.
These are good reads.
Ah.
I've decided this is too refreshing and I think I will take up a fictionalized style too.
It's so much more comfortable to write in.
And I've always written short stories based on life.
cheers, mate.
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