I sent this to my friend Zach, I don't think he wrote back. It's fiction, but not that strange. Rereading it makes me think of one of Kurt Vonnegut's rules for writing a short story that I should have followed more closely.)
*****
"The Frenchman"
The Frenchman stood just inside the entrance to the cafe. He was torn.
On one hand, he was tired and parched. The stiff wooden chair appeared as a holy blessing to his tired feet. The tall dusty bottles with fire on the inside beckoned to his throat and to his Spirit.
But he was not welcome here and he knew it. The back table of bikers seem ready to fight. The bartender took one look at him and said "If you take another step, I will call the police" although no one except The Frenchman heard him say that. The patrons were calm.
The Frenchman twirled his mustache in his fingers for a moment and thought of a raunchy comment to make about the bartender's wife. It was true.
The Frenchman then turned and left, without saying anything.
On one hand, he was tired and parched. The stiff wooden chair appeared as a holy blessing to his tired feet. The tall dusty bottles with fire on the inside beckoned to his throat and to his Spirit.
But he was not welcome here and he knew it. The back table of bikers seem ready to fight. The bartender took one look at him and said "If you take another step, I will call the police" although no one except The Frenchman heard him say that. The patrons were calm.
The Frenchman twirled his mustache in his fingers for a moment and thought of a raunchy comment to make about the bartender's wife. It was true.
The Frenchman then turned and left, without saying anything.
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