A little while back, Esquire magazine had a contest for stories that were exactly 79 words long. I assume it was for a 79th anniversary. Anyway, I wrote three, and submitted the third. Never heard back from ’em.
I don’t drink. The band sucks. I’m only in this dump to be social, getting to know the crew I’ll spend the summer working with.
Even after yakking with a pal from university, it’s too soon to bail. S’pose I could luck out and pick up a nice local girl?
She punches me hard on the arm. “Buy me a drink!” Ethanol pours from her pores as she sits.
I turn in my seat. Oh, hey, look – a band!
2. Schrondinger’s Mailbox
Apparently my personal ad got noticed.
“Her” e-mail is brief and contains several typos. “She” introduces “herself”, say where “she” lives (a thousand miles away), and asks if I like books (yes).
Why the quotes? I don’t really know who wrote this. It could be a lovely woman or a creepy guy. I could fall in love, or be gravely embarrassed. Contrary outcomes co-exist in the absence of sufficient data.
I can resolve the paradox if I click “Reply”.
3. Lunch for Two
Two ancient adversaries sat in a booth, finishing their meals. One grasped a slip of paper. “The best laid plans are those you don’t know,” He read.
“…In bed,” added Lou.
“You add in bed to make it funny. God, get with it.”
“Fortune cookies are meant to impart wisdom and invoke thoughtfulness at the conclusion of a meal,” He frowned.
“They’re mass-produced confections containing hackneyed clichés.”
Thus was Lucifer cast out of the Heavenly Palace Buffet…