the last time mike d. saw rob g. was at an indian restaurant called passage to india. it was missing the ‘the’ or the ‘a’, he cannot quite remember. words are just dead neons anyway, ha.
the restaurant was at the back of an alley, with a blue garbo at the front, and a statue of ganeca, with the head of a pug, next to the sky.
they said the chef was from the north of india. where the river is yamuna, never the gangga, and the coconout trees haven’t produced milk since 324 BC. that’s why the food is drier, and the chai tastes like earth.
rob g. explained everything to mike d. he knew so much about the world, he looked into everything lovingly.
they ordered a thali, a dosa, and a dessert called jamun, or gulab, or jamun gulab, whichever way they called it the only thing they remember was the sauce that the chef said came from a special breed of honey. bee, you mean, corrected rob g. i knew how you grew up too, mon chef d’restaurant indienne, you never learned how to think clearly, consoled rob g.
the chef dropped his head, or his hat, they cannot quite remember.
before the end of the meal suddenly.
rob g. said he had to split. the bills? asked mike d. no, some trees, answered rob g.
with those words rob g., or was it mike d., disappeared into thick air because the air in the restaurant was indeed thick with scents of jasmine, clove and a pair of sandals made of disused wires.
mike d. never saw rob g. again.
his heart hurt so aching-
that’s how you avoid adverb in a sentence.
until one day, the day mike d. bought himself a shiny blue radio.
p.s. this is a picture of the restaurant:
there is no picture of the restaurant.
<span style="font-style: italic;
“>*first published as the first part of a four-part storee on thursday, 23 november 2006, in another seecret blog. slightly modified to this model. the next three installments will follow tomorrow, the day after, and the day after the day after.