The Forgotten Story

Please let me speak—I used to want to, but I was still unready at the banquet to air my views, nor was I going to provide any explanation in an area of significance.

Although, I told myself that I would, and then I scheduled something else. I ate the food—pulpous and semisolid and I still have some level of pride. I was wearing my new Swiss vintage wristwatch with its good sword hands.

Now more than ever—I got not much further than at the point of arrival, when I said, “Where is the restroom? Is elevator service available?” and “Could I use the bathroom now?”

I had taken the tiny single-serve butter packs that were provided and the tiny half-and-half tubs and made of them a colonnade that then tipped and leaned itself intact against my water goblet.

One should be able, in conversation to recall, just so, an attitude or an impressive deed in one’s life, slot it in, watch it climb.

“Do you know this lady?”—a woman I didn’t know pointed at me.

“Yes, ma’am. She’s my wife,” the man across from me said.

“Why aren’t we listening to this nice woman?” the interlocutor continued. “For instance, what does she think about Trey Gowdy?”

My little tower fell down. There was laughter and then a shadow the size and shape of an unclad foot, whose toes were wagging, showed up behind the head of the man, so that I was not left with a positive feeling.

I looked at my empty restaurant plate. It had a green-stripe around its border and a logo with an eagle and the date nearby it.

Oh, listen, I didn’t say a word. A waiter brought bread that I took between my hands, broke into bits, and scattered about on the plate. I regained my senses and made a small province with the crumbs, or country.