We’re out with friends for a couple of beers when my eyes are drawn to a lone cracker there on the table, the solitary goldfish nestled in the midst of a bowlful of knotted pretzels.
Ever notice the Queen Anne’s lace has a single purple blossom at the center of every flower? acknowledging the similarities.
Same as the beer mix, guess someone suggested.
I’d been reading innuendo into the oddest of things – lately, hardly a billboard or a weather report that hadn’t made some sort of indelicate inference. So I say: or even my dreams parading as pretense.
Eliciting a response from one of us that dreams may be little more than windows to the soul, a revelation seemed directed at me.
Then when we get up to go, following an evening of frivolity and frenzied discourse, topics ranging from Obama’s cabinet choices to Marty Willson-Piper (lead singer for a band called the Church) and the hardness of Chinese ebony, I reach into the scattered pretzel remains to extract several of the goldfish I’d spotted languishing at the bottom of the bowl.
Eyebrows raised, our young friend Chloe who’d been quietly observing from across the table: a few fish for the road?
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