the buildup—right to the point a geyser erupts.
when i finish speaking, he has his drink pressed against his lips, ice to mouth. not a good sign. which only deepens my hatred for storytelling. i never know how to tell a story—i leave out too many details, assume people can see what i’m thinking, & i never know where to begin. most memories feel like tiny shimmering flecks & most seem too small to bother with. i wish storytelling was as easy as pouring the past into a kool-aid pitcher, passing it to someone, & then letting them drink themselves full. but my date doesn’t seem like the type of person who would ever worry about the stories we hold inside. he places his cup down & says, that’s cute. i like robot chicken. have you seen that show?