Face twisted, possessed, smoking Lucky Strikes, one after another, sipping coffee, eyes rolling up to the sky, listening to voices, eyeing the little girls, cupping his ears, sitting next to the window at McDonalds, under the hibiscus.
The place is haunted, by its own private demon. That old lady who sat down at the table next to him is in for a rude shock when she bites into her Big Mac.
Now people tables apart have noticed him, their embarrassed glancing-away gone, talking about him, laughing, exchanging a relief they can share. And here I thought was the only one who could see him. But everybody know a demon.
11:06 am
3-26-1986