"Those are moths leftover from the mother of all moth wars belly up in your sunroom." -Julie Doxsee, from Objects for a Fog Death

Diner

I wanted you to look at me, so I rustled my newspaper a bit. You didn’t look, so I took a loud sip of my orange juice. I then readjusted how I was sitting in my chair, and took off my shoes. You still didn’t look, so I played with my hair and cleared my throat. I cleared my throat because I needed to, though, because of the orange juice. You still didn’t notice. We both finished our morning routines and went on our usual morning walk, but you still wouldn’t look at me. I would even jump out in front of you and put my face in front of yours, but, always, at that very moment, a random friend would be to your right, and you would turn and say hello to them. Or, a plane would be flying over, and you would stare up at the sky, following it until it disappeared behind clouds. Or, you would notice your shoelace untied, and you would squat down and tie it. I decided to maybe just tap you on the shoulder, but, when I reached over, I tripped over a curb that was a bit larger than a normal curb, and collapsed behind you without touching you. You continued to walk. I turned and started walking back home. I saw Jerry on the way. Hey, Jerry, would you do me a favor I said. Sure thing, Emile he said. Could you just look at me, if only for a bit I said. What was that he said. He was looking at his car, which he was busy washing. He began spraying loudly, and shook his head, indicating that the conversation was over. I went home and went into the bathroom. I was going to look at myself in the mirror, but I noticed a dirty spot a bit above my head, and so I rubbed it off, and I walked out of the bathroom. I went to my bed. I closed my eyes, and I forgot if my limbs were still attached where they should be.