What Truth
The reward, he could barely stand it waiting for the reward, a reward, any reward, would be a juicy fried rib eye for breakfast. How it would sizzle. He could barely stand it, there, I don't mind saying that again. I can see him thinking about it, pretending like he is thinking about nothing at all. He fools a lot of people with that blank stare but he isn't fooling me. A rib eye was all he could think about. Red meat juice dribbled down the chin of his imagination. One more thing competing for space with meat was the subtle difference between another thing coming and another think. Oh how once he laughed that good natured laugh. Were his lips exercising the dance of condescension? Did he misunderstand something very important that day when he mistakingly reduced his worldview to one constrained by verbal conjugation. The boy with nothing to do and no friends nearby had woefully uttered, I'm boring, when what he had meant to say was--I'm bored. But the truth was, the truth is, the boy was right the first time. He is boring. The man wondered if the meat would still be fresh. He was faint now, even the thought of bloody meat did little to revive him. He would wash it down with the juice of carrots and beets and radishes and celery and jalapeno and ginger and lemon and garlic. It wasn't a new diet, exactly. He was boring. It would take a trick or two to resolve the damage done by not realizing it sooner.
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