In the kitchen someone dropped a plate. A red headed woman looked at the kitchen door, then back at her date.
An old woman clucked, wine poured faintly, like urine in an alley.
The sound of distant thunder from trucks passing on the wooden bridge underlie the musical clang of the silver on plates as they are gathered by tired hands.
Robert was tired too. But the dry, warm, inviting bell on the door at ‘Marios Italian Restorante’ perked him up. For a second. A young happy couple came into the restaurant, laughing & exuberant.
Robert felt a pang inside --when he looked at the couple. His mouth watered, but he had just eaten, and too much, again, at that. He felt like a wolf, wanting more.... for winters preserves.
“Im just so…..”
His auditory focus reeled back to his girlfriend.
She had been blibbering about like a fish on sand for eternity. He started to count the silences in advocacy of the end of eternity. But the silences were so short it was as if there were none.
Forever is a long time.
Looking at her wilting chocolate cheesecake he thought he might have been more likely to be able to count the grains of cheese fibers that the baked curds had if only he had a microscope.
He let his fork pretend like one, investigating the mass, one millicurd at a time.
“Hey, are you listening? I dont think you understa---....”
Her voice rang out like a gong announcing the end of time warning that the end of science as we know it has come. He looked up, but only by instinct of sound/reaction.
She was pushing her brown locks up.... in an insecure primping plush that made her seem like a 16 year old not sure if she should pretend to be innocent or show her mom her new tattoo.
But her indecision couldn't have been more perfect for an omen and an ode to life itself. And, on the contrary, their meaning was grasped... just in another universe. Because you see….
what we plan, sometimes has a way of becoming hijacked, even when we think nothing can stop us from getting ] what we want. For no sooner had she said,
“I dont think you understa---”
but the fork, i.e. his hand, reeled back like a rocket, enough to ensure a straight shot and then rammed right through her mouth and into the back of her neck.
And then, he kept holding the fork, as her eyes did the “wtf” pop, he arose, twisting with the rise, like a good stretch on the yogamat, his hand pridefully slow to release his grip on the fork...
blood squirted on his hand, and on the linen, and the floor, and out the back of her neck, like it was leading his path.... as he walked past her, forwards towards the door, on clouds.
He began to count the seconds again, knowing the cement pavement would be his treadmill, but that time itself was his, and his alone. Eternity caught in a bottle, just for his own keeping,
for ONE whole, glorious,
duration of 9 192 631 770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cesium 133 atom,
i.e. second, the restaurant froze... and he knew that within his thought-step was a hijack of perfect silence by stupid human chaos.
And when the red headed woman screamed,
he took his ready cue. The little bell on the door jingled and he disappeared into the night.
After about 10 blocks, he could hear the sirens begin, and he pushed away from them, letting their audibility be his guide and the subway, a friendly destination. A ticket to flesh #2.
He was sweating and panting when he saw the S on subway sign light a few blocks away. Thats all he needed.
To be pushed by a sound of the end of flesh #1 and to be lulled by the mystery of flesh #2. And now to unravel the next mystery, he thought. A thing to be honed. A sculpture to be chisled.
All the failures and imperfections of the last body of flesh will serve as a blueprint for a new paradigm and likely, yes, very likely, as humans are so stupid and dont listen,
there will be an end made of her. But her imperfections will serve as yet a 3rd blueprint.
And this will be the ladder. And at the top. I will find my queen. He thought. He hopped into the subway.
The doors closed. He sat down.
A blond woman was reading a newspaper.
He wiped his brow. She looked at his sweat.
“Keys," his words swelled like a peaceful ocean, "why do they like to hide when you just need to get to work?”