The Girl in the Blue Corduroy Jacket

Monkey Robot sees the girl in the Girl in the Blue Corduroy Jacket from a booth in the restaurant. Monkey Robot cuts chicken breast in chocolate sauce using a Monkey Robot right hand, and she is walking into town. Her hands are in the pockets of her jacket. She walks alone. She walks with a purpose. She wears black pants and keeps her hands in the jacket pockets.

Monkey Robot wants to meet the girl in the Girl in the Blue Corduroy Jacket.

She often sits in the park, in the sun, in the cold, in red lipstick, reading.

Monkey Robot wants to meet the girl in the Girl in the Blue Corduroy Jacket.

Because she once blew small cold breath white from between red lips.

Because she was reading Victor Hugo.

Because she needs a hair cut.

Because her eyes slid left to Monkey Robot as the Monkey Robot walked by as slow as possible.

Monkey Robot wants to take the Girl in the Blue Corduroy Jacket to a hotel, near sandy beach, in foreign country, where they can walk on a hot terrace in bare feet, and wear sunglasses.

A place where she can read Victor Hugo in a proper light,

and her hair could grow a little longer,

and get a little lighter,

and she could say Monkey Robot's name

like she knew the Monkey Robot's name.

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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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