Monkey Robot Learns Spanish

The Monkey Robot goes to the hardware store, as to find a replacement reciprocating wrench. Monkey Robot walks past lighting. Monkey Robot walks past house paints. Monkey Robot walks past rakes, hoses, fish emulsion fertilizers, stoney toads figurines, and dark green tomato ties.

Monkey Robot walks into home improvement.

Behind a door frame a woman stands alone.

She wears a worried mouth. She uses her right hand to open the door in the door frame.

She tells Monkey Robot that one can easily break a wrist securing a screw.

Monkey Robot asks her if there is a proper way to secure an item without the danger of injury.

The woman's mouth loosens, becoming less worried as she answers.

She uses her left hand to close the door in the door frame and says, "That is doubtful."

When she comes to Monkey Robot's apartment, she is wearing a black skirt, cut above the knee. Her knees are somewhat plain, thought the skirt is obviously well tailored. She wears her hair pulled back. She doesn't take her sunglasses off. Her shirt is white. Her shirt is immaculate.

She unbuttons her jacket, but leaves it on. She lets it hang open.

They stand in the kitchen.

Monkey Robot makes them each a Sloe Gin Fizz.

She tells Monkey Robot that she once owned a hand gun. She tells Monkey Robot that in the summer she can sometimes be found drinking a Vodka gimlet in a tree. She adds that this is an event that she most enjoys doing alone. Monkey Robot hadn't gotten any ideas. She tells him that she has very little use for winter, and less for snow in her shoes. She lets Monkey Robot know hat being awake at 4:30 AM is highly romanticized.

The woman with the worried mouth adds that she has not made up her mind on the practicality of ankle socks.

Monkey Robot gives her a small orange ranunculus to wear on her jacket.

She asks for a pin.

Monkey Robot looks for a button hole.

She opens her arms, and hands Monkey Robot her finished drink. She somehow rattles the ice in the glass without moving her hand. The woman with the worried mouth stretches her arms out, and places her beautiful hands on the counter. Each hand reclines on each side of her. She tilts her hip to the left, cocks her chin slightly in the same direction, and bends one knee. Her hands remain steady, but somnific. They frame her.

She moves her left hand to the handle of the counter drawer, am this without her eyes leaving Monkey Robot's gaze.

She says, Maybe there is one in here.

She slides the drawer open.

'"...abierto.."

This she says under her breath.

The woman with the worried mouth places one beautiful hand inside the drawer, and then drops her gaze as to get a good look inside.

She pulls out a tomato shark.

'What is this?'

She pulls out a citrus zester.

'I have one of these.'

She pulls out the pastry knife.

She says, "...hmmm..."

There are no pins. None.

Monkey Robot holds the flower. Monkey Robot makes it turn between Monkey Robot fingers.

She moves her right hand to her sunglasses, and removes them.

She looks bored, and then the woman's mouth begins to look worried .

With ease she slides the drawer closed.

Without looking, she says under her breath, '"...cerrado..".

Monkey Robot hears Spain's spanish draped all over the D like a summer nap.

Monkey Robot makes the orange ranunculus go round between Monkey Robot fingers.

Under Monkey Robot breath, Monkey Robot mimics her accent.

Monkey Robot says, "Recuerdo de siempre."

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Disclaimer

I never could finish the MRL story. I didn't want to write about The Man from Senegal. I did want to write that he goes home to have dinner and chokes on a chicken bone. A bone that had been attached to a thigh that was seasoned just right with white pepper and lemon grass. I wanted to write about the directions that his legs jerked in and how that long tall body careened as he lurched out the doorway of his house. I so desired to find the correct words to describe the blue of suffocation that would bloom under his dark skin. I wanted to write about the people who pass him by, as he plucks with such long fingers at the the bone caught in his throat. How they are my own personal heros, looking away to check the time or what it was lodged under their fingernails, as he tumbled to the ground. I wanted to write about the dust that clings to the front and backside of that beautiful shirt of his, as he turns over in the street.

In the end I was not that person and that was not how the story ended.

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