TAKING FRANZ KAFKA TO LUNCH
Well...He still looked like a bug to me.
even if they'd killed him. Scrunched
over the table, head down, messing
around with some liquid in a cup. We
just waited and he said little. All that
distancing stuff was good for him,
plus that scarf over his mouth. I kept
looking around to see what others
had noticed - if anything. We must
have looked odd. Two twisted guys
without much sense. He said he only
ate off Melmac trays? I had no clue.
-
These days it's difficult to get away with
with things. Loud voices throw everything
off; cartwheels and juggernauts mix the
matters up. As it was, a waiter hardly
ever came by, and we ended up staying
in place there way too long. Franz said
he could wait; he said it wouldn't matter.
The things he did were out of time.
-
I was doodling on a napkin when news
came of the truce, but by then it was
far too late. Old Franz seemed turning
human again and that wasn't to my liking.
I'd never known him in that guise, and
all I could think of was how he'd really
never fit into the suburbia world we
mixed in : some extra guy at a card
game, or maybe an off-the-betting-card
horse, in a race where he'd maybe place.
-
Some bets were down on him.
I left without a trace; my lunch
with Franz Kafka was over.
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