There’s a man in the coffee shop. He is talking to the cute waitress who I think hates me. She appears to hate me so much that I think she must be gay. But I guess not. He is asking if she ever reads books. Oh no, she laughs. Hahaha, I wish I could, I just never have the time. She works in a coffee shop that serves about eight customers a day and is also a bookstore.
He walks back to the shelf and comes back with a book, white cover black letters like those six packs in Maine that just say “beer,” and the cover says “Oranges Tangerines Bananas” or something. He hands it to her. It is his book; he wrote it. Oh, she says, I will have to check this out. He has a black leather jacket and a tattoo of a kite.
You motherfucker with your poems about fruits. If I had one more hustler gene I’d rule the world.