Three stories spinning at once, not to mention watching out for cars. It’ll be a wonder if your Asparagus Syndrome client doesn’t end up on Poet’s Walk picking her way through masses of grackles and starlings.
Lock this bike to the rack.
Plus that song repeating all day, an– hold on! Asparagus is an item on the shopping list, not a story – see? See! Good thing for the helmet, so nothing else gets in, but on the other hand: what if it’s a pressure cooker, exacerbating the whole situation?
Pull the helmet off.
Consider the detail that a good thirty percent of life is past your bedtime. Stolen. No wonder the sun is always going down. Now, for instance.
Plunk an asparagus into the basket. Also bananas.
Sirens bark in the distance, dogs wail around the neighborhood. Ah, Dodie Smith, you smile. But: those puppies clamoring to be adopted in Houston. Also emails due for Berlin, Auckland, and Orange County Penitentiary. An address you unfortunately don’t have. You frown.
Think: Mapplethorpe envisioned the whole, complete, in an instant – then simply raced to execute. So they say.
That neighbor has spotted you – despite your cycling disguise – you’re forced to chat at the checkout, clenching your teeth against blurting out what her ruffians did to your yard. And the private line is ring-ring-ringing through: Hello, hello – these are your stories calling!
Christ, put the helmet back on – don’t let another thing in! Goggles, too. Rose-colored. At least there’s the filter of that.