I used to write stories in which squirrels pushed little girls into a well.
I wrote in bars because at home there’s just so much distraction as well as that I just looked good with my notebook and my pen and my chilly, untouched coffee. I guess I don’t know but you probably saw me before but certainly I’d seen you because well you were handsome and I like beauty but anyway you did come up to me that day and asked what I was doing.
I am writing a story in which a squirrel pushes a little girl into a well.
Why? you said.
Well, there could be many reasons. That’s what makes it a story, right? Maybe the squirrel was jealous of the little girl's pink dress. Or maybe he wanted to take revenge for her picking his favorite flower. In the story I am writing now, the squirrel is actually a witch and the well
But you were gone already. Maybe you just came up to me on a dare. Or to convert me to your religion. Or to ask for a quarter to use the pay phone. Or to get some sugar from the bowl in my booth. Or maybe it’s just that you thought I was somebody else.
Somebody famous and better.
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