A man and a woman sit in a floating, spherical booth in the middle of the dining room of a pancake house. The woman is doing most of the talking. With a friendly, solemn expression, the man just listens. It is apparent from their demeanor that they are anticipating the arrival of their food.
“I think,” the woman begins, and then pauses as if looking for the right words.
the new vacuum that replaced the broken one is missing a screw, when i lift it by the grip the entire handlepiece comes out of the body, it smacks the carpet with a loud plastic thwack. once i put it back together and toggle the powersource several times it works again. i realize the machine isn’t picking up any of the construction dust trailed from the New Archives™ (funded over people starving in the lobby) onto this carpet,
Without the voice in my head, which sounds a lot more fluid than the croak that comes out of my mouth, I’d be suicidal, I thought at my desk today. But would you? I reckon if I didn’t wannabe a poet I’d wannabe I’m unsure.
