Waffles and The Man

You finger the tear in the Naugahyde booth in the back of the diner, making the rip wider exposing dusty soft cotton. What if you died on your way home and you could only think of what they sky looked like when you fell in the woods and split your knee on a rock? You’re lonely because of the way you tongue your waffles scooping the syrup from each chamber, like a bee on a mission, who caught himself pondering the substance in his stomach. I find a hair on my eggs and an ambulance wails to some awful accident.

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Title by: Ben
Story by: Jeremy

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