Woke up laughing this morning.
Roman hands, Russian fingers.
I’ve no idea why that was the first thing on my mind, but it was. I was dreaming about being at a conference with people who spoke with accents. Maybe the eclectic blending of foreign brogues and laughter in my dream lead to the Roman hands, Russian fingers thought.
My husband laughed, too, when I laughed. It was contagious.
He then told me, laughing even more, about the time he ordered a taco at Jack in the Box that dripped red sauce down his sleeve, and how angry he was about that.
“I liked Pepe’s much better, when it was a fast food joint, before you had a contessa at the door to seat you. The people who worked spoke broken English.
“There was a Pepe’s back in the late ‘60s, early ‘70s on Western Avenue, between Jan’s Adult Bookstore and a gypsy card reader. What a combination!”
Later that morning, I saw one of our local government candidates on a corner holding up his election sign and surrounded by about fifteen more staked into the ground. I waved. He waved. There’s a guy who’s working for his votes, I thought.
Maybe these stories here don’t seem to be related, but maybe in a peculiar way they do. I dreamt about people with foreign accents, I had a conversation about a Mexican restaurant, and the local candidate I saw on the corner is Chinese.
No Romans, no Russians, but funny nonetheless to me.
November 4, 2016.
©Susan Marie Molloy, and all works within.