Last Rites Of Brunch

Brunch long since over, third and fourth cups had been drained. Our lively fellowship of french toast and cajun omelets, is now reduced to a gruel of generic drivel. Every platter, fork and glass has made its’ clattering exit and now enjoy sudsy rebirth. One final fallen player remains. Wrapped within Goblin magic spells of invisibility which deceive all but me is the check. To my companions eyes it appears as road-kill squirrel.
The unrecognizable front half is smeared in a ring of condensation that emulates spent body fluids. The nether end flutters like a tail, buffeted in the wake of passing waiters.
“We must now most reverently honor the dead!” I finally proclaim. And gently place the corpse in one hand and my Visa Card in the other. A poor cortege we three from, marching with sorrowful single step cadence to my quietly hummed requiem. Duties discharged at the register, I exit, as the busboy serves up a hearty “have a nice day!”, without a crumb of sincerity.

by – Doug Mathewson