冰猫侦探社

My desperation for words is taught His nose is statuesquely tall What my almond eyes mouthed I wish he could tell

I gazed at the shopping assistant over the counter who was on the phone asking her colleague a simple question about the inventory. Then she truncated the call and haltingly hammered some clunky, jutting buttons on the landline and thus whack-a-moled another number. This time she plonked the receiver on the counter as to liberate her hands for something distracting and insignificant, which gave her an air of busyness. She didn’t ask who was answering when the call went through. She just sent shivers down the cable lines asking the same booming question, like words but a fresh tonal presentation. The voice from the other end was immediately reassembled from the electrical current, muffled, so she cut it short in a fit of impatience and parroted the same question with no creative alterations this time, apparently not interested in any illumination from the other part. And I thought to myself: This woman is just a dot.

The thing about having an inordinate amount of tea mere hours before bedtime is not so much the fear of losing sleep as the brutalization from a confined body with a  mutinied mind. Through some hard-to-explain yet does-exist mechanism, my head is always leaps ahead the rest of my shell, which sounds excruciatingly funny because it is (just think of a cartoon cat holding its severed head running in circles while the house mouse gives a hearty, noisy snuffle), but does not make me any more endearing. You are like a swordsman with a freshly botoxed face, says my mom; you are the coldest person I’ve ever met, says one of my solar female friends, to which, almost by way of retort, I responded “‘cause I’ve never expected to catch heat from you?” I’m not cold, I mean, at least not as siderale  as they made me out. I’m not justifying anything just because  it’s 4 in the morning and I’m hyperactive after that dammed tea with nothing better to do. I, personally, do not see anythin...