i took this in georgia. “no, nigel, i will not be your backup waiter,” he said, bored.
nigel was still swishing the chocolate residue around in the bottom of the cup of cocoa he’d finished hours ago. he didn’t look up.
“nigel, i’m serious. look at me.”
nigel didn’t look up. “there’s a spider trapped in my hot chocolate, you know,” is all he said. there was, indeed, a little black arachnid swimming around, struggling as nigel moved the wet powder back and forth.
“what does that have to do with anything?” he said. he glanced at his watch. “nigel, seriously.”
nigel had his head on the counter now, so his eyes were on the same level as the bottom of the mug, and he could no longer see inside. so he couldn’t watch the spider drown.
“death by chocolate,” muttered nigel.
“pfft, please, that is so cliché.” a cello concerto came on somewhere, from some speakers, faint but audible.
“it’s the people who do everything to avoid being cliché, they end up being more clichéd than everyone else,” said nigel.
“i don’t have time for this.”
“then leave…please…”nigel pushed the mug at him. “and while you’re leaving, put this somewhere it can be cleaned.”
“i’m not your backup waiter, nigel. no.” then he left.
nigel was alone. he pulled the mug back, close to his body, and raised his head off the table. he looked down at the spider again.
“i spy, with my little eye, something dying,” nigel said, sing-song, softly.
“is it me?” asked the spider.
nigel laughed. “no, it’s not you.” he picked a spoon up and scooped the spider out. the spider scuttled onto the marble countertop.
nigel was still swishing the chocolate residue around in the bottom of the cup of cocoa he’d finished hours ago. he didn’t look up.
“nigel, i’m serious. look at me.”
nigel didn’t look up. “there’s a spider trapped in my hot chocolate, you know,” is all he said. there was, indeed, a little black arachnid swimming around, struggling as nigel moved the wet powder back and forth.
“what does that have to do with anything?” he said. he glanced at his watch. “nigel, seriously.”
nigel had his head on the counter now, so his eyes were on the same level as the bottom of the mug, and he could no longer see inside. so he couldn’t watch the spider drown.
“death by chocolate,” muttered nigel.
“pfft, please, that is so cliché.” a cello concerto came on somewhere, from some speakers, faint but audible.
“it’s the people who do everything to avoid being cliché, they end up being more clichéd than everyone else,” said nigel.
“i don’t have time for this.”
“then leave…please…”nigel pushed the mug at him. “and while you’re leaving, put this somewhere it can be cleaned.”
“i’m not your backup waiter, nigel. no.” then he left.
nigel was alone. he pulled the mug back, close to his body, and raised his head off the table. he looked down at the spider again.
“i spy, with my little eye, something dying,” nigel said, sing-song, softly.
“is it me?” asked the spider.
nigel laughed. “no, it’s not you.” he picked a spoon up and scooped the spider out. the spider scuttled onto the marble countertop.
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