That gargoyle could fall off and kill me.
I stare at the speaker. She is kidding right?
What gargoyle?
The one on the bank building.
You mean the bank up the block?
She nods her head.
We keep walking. I am leery of her now.
I would date that guy from the coffee shop, she says.
But he would probably break my heart.
What guy?
The cute guy.
If we go there can you point him out?
He probably won’t be there; he might have quit or something.
I am wondering why people at work think this girl is upbeat.
I am not seeing it yet.
That gargoyle she says, pointing.
I have to squint to see it.
Don’t let the sun get into your eye, she cautions me.
Your eye could get sun cancer.
I decide this will be the last time we get coffee together during break.
Bell on the coffee shop door rings as we enter.
It’s him! She says.
He politely takes our order.
That guy? I whisper.
She nods.
We start to find a chair.
He hates me, she says.
Lighthouses are said to be adventurous when going out for a party. They leap, spin and are generally wild upon the dance floors. But a large bank building with over fifteen floors is gifted at ballet and a ballet is not a bullfrog belching, a brilliant blooming blossom, nor is it a birthday balloon. It is to be said that on arriving in the kitchen one must wear several silver baubles on one's head then wobble around and around making sure that the noise is sufficient to drown out the washing machine, snoring pig, taps, and the cooker. How absolutely marvellous that is then. Exquisitely enquiring each earthly evidential éclair. But eating of currant buns should nit take place after midnight for the eyes of currants are quite charismatic and can chant charms to overloaded tins of fruit mix. Haha the wide angled view of a perimeter is laughing at the central observational otters. And the crested glass is linking arms with a baking tray dressed in a tiara and floaty skirt. Skim then. Xxxxx totalitarianism z z z z z at four biscuits past eighteen seagulls in a kitchen cupboard.