A Square Meal for a Square Deal by Nick Brooks
She couldn't speak in a way that didn't pull silly mannerisms out of the locals. This being yet another dollop in the mountain of causes of my twitch, I gagged her when we left the house. She didn't seem to mind. I've avoided trying to discern why as I'm sure I wouldn't like the root cause of it. It might make me want to take it off and then the wave of twitching would begin again. Best to remain ignorant on that one.
We communicated using hand movements and eye contact. Not so much sign language, with its rules and committees and national holiday. Just sharp looks and pointing. Using it, I've gotten to know her faster then several years of blather and lies would have.
When properly prepared for our two-person parade through the garment district, we made a small meal of ketchup and feta cheese. Consuming it quickly was easy and a general delight. Upon exiting our current residence she told me of a sarcophagus she had created last Labor Day. She assured me the holiday had little significance to the creation. I'm not so sure, only time will tell. On the outside of the corpse box she carved a list of reasons why you are worthless. Specifically you, but general enough that they were applicable to anyone alive or alive at one time. Anyone who killed themselves after reading it was then burned and their ashes were stored in the box. I asked if that made it an urn. She shrugged, spat on the floor, then communicated that an urn was to small to write suicide inducing poetry on it.
"Poetry?" I asked.
"Sure, why not? I doubt you know the difference anyway." She was right but I didn't enjoy it.
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Photograph taken by Tim Forbes.
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