a man, mid-fifty, respectable appearance, left the house this morning, walked down the street and turned left. out of sight.
the story goes on but they wouldn’t let us know about, said sponge, surely not, which, in turn, is something we cannot speak about. the man’s family left it very late to contact the authorities. they wasn’t much they could do, in fairness, only clean up the mess. this, they did so-so.
she read a paper, her finger loosely tracing the lines. she smiled briefly from time to time and, more frequently, slightly shook her head in disbelief.
you’ll have to change that, said breadroll, people don’t do that in real life, shake their head and stuff when they read. they don’t participate, they know it is not something one has to do when reading. only in movies, maybe. that little episode is very advanced, i don’t think i can change it like that. besides, people generally enjoy the protagonists to show some animation, a human touch, even if it is not realistic. it is a symbol, it is the realistic power of irrealism. one describes thing in a way they are not to show what they are and why.
that makes sense, said breadroll, but it doesn’t really make sense.
the queue had moved, the were closer to the counter. hope we are in the right queue, said sponge. we’re almost there, said breadroll.
the woman read a paper. a cup of coffee on the table. cold coffee, unfinished by somebody. occasionally the waitress came over to ask, was she, the reading woman, finished with it. no, the woman said, i’m still drinking it. she continued to read. calmly.
26 February, 2010 