Avant-garde

Paul is treating me to coffee at Cavanaugh’s when the looters bust through the plate glass window.  We are in line, and he is he telling me he feels awkward because he’d gotten a blowjob from the barista with the denim skirt and the pistol-shaped belt buckle. They were alone in the shop on a rainy night and after some chitchat, she just started to do it. Somehow I believe it; she has a neediness I’ve never tried to exploit. Now, he says, he’s buying new underwear for the first time since leaving Delaware.

I’m ordering when the glass comes down. We all jump over the counters for safety.  I find myself shoved against the petrified barista rocking back and forth grabbing her ankles as I decide whether or not its worthwhile un-holstering my Ruger to protect crullers and bagels as the rioters grab. What’s more, they’ve spilled my coffee.