But Her Slicing....
Lying to the peculiar stranger
About your age while chewing
On the imported straw
Engaging in partial lamenting
Talking with this echo
Of somebody known
In all the right place.
There she resumed her habitual use of the diner’s decadent napkin. Drawing repetitive attention from the waitress who had eventually aged to the point of being ageless. who always her a lukewarm grin in passing.
Taking the young lady’s plate of home fries; not saying a word but always noticing the onions were the only thing she ate.
Nevertheless her feet continued to hang off that stool. Cooling her hot feet on the clay faced tiles that always felt the same no matter what the room temperature was.
It could have been just the word, but she never could figure out why she only ate the onions. Ever since that day in biology class when she learned that they were a starch.
It could have been that word. Just the strong emphasis on -cher part. Playing with leftovers next to her. She never did just pull plate over but kept it there.
For her to just grab the older gentleman with a bald head and a suit. Always sitting next to her. Leaning over balancing her body and dignity she massaged her bottom lip with her top front teeth.
Digging into that half-puckered fat; holding half of her mouth together—so the waitress once told her—or was it her mother?
She couldn’t remember which one had said that.
She realized that what she was doing, when the slight grazing of the starch-like chunk of how grease was soon stabbed in half with a wild fork.
Meeting expectations yet coming off as a light taste of blood touched her tongue. Tasting like steel at room temperature, she locked her hidden lips once she distanced her metal from the oval shaped ceramic.
Detached yet rather alarmed by an intrusive piece of sharp wood—otherwise called a ‘model splinter’–snatched the starch-half on her plate. Looking up, it was the curious bus boy.
Tightening the trip on her eyes with his own; coupled with a loose smile with the slightest shade of yellow to match her shirt.
She returned it with a tight grin. Just as the waitress grabbed the plate of home fries and walked away.
Leaving her with the scent of onions’ fried vapor lingering in the air.
Maybe it was the contradiction between the aural emphasis and the written ending with ’-cher’ sound. It was like we were all taught dyslexic and then shamed if we the few of us actually caught onto to it’s nuance.