The Storyteller
I needed to let you know.
He turned the knob two clicks to the right and then two to the left. This went on forever.
The jazz roared, and the guys and gals nibbled on giggle water until they were out on the roof. Cigarettes fogged up the joint, but even then she shone from across the drum.
“Can I cut in?” he asked.
She was with a wide-framed fella who had a peculiar, underdeveloped chin. He stepped away out of courtesy, but she pulled him close again.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her hand on the fella’s chest. “I hope you understand.”
“If that’s your fancy, I cannot argue,” he replied.
He took up a stool at the bar, ordered two fingers and clandestinely took pictures of her with his phone.
“What motivated you to get up?” the reporter asked.
“I ain’t no bitch,” the prizefighter replied. “No more questions.”
He bit off the microphone and spit it at the crowd.
Damon thought of the office folk as animals: they knew how to shit, but not how to flush. He gripped the plunger with opposable thumbs.
