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We are the robots
By David Gaffney
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She was the third girlfriend to ditch me this year. ‘We went to this club,’
I told Gary, ‘and at the end of the night she’d completely changed. She was
distant, hostile.’
He looked at me over the rim of his spectacles
‘Did you dance?’
‘Well,’ I poked at a beer mat. ‘At one point I did throw a few shapes.’
He tilted his head towards me. ‘Did you do the robotics?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘What was the music?’
‘Eighties retro.’
Gary removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘How many times have we been
through this – you hear the music, you do the robotics.’ He picked up his
coat. ‘No woman will stand for it.’
Later I was on the floor. A moog bass line squelched, a metallic snare ripped
the air, I was part of a machine, a valve in the heart of a bleeping gnashing
metal beast.
____________________
David Gaffney wrote this on the back of his
hand right after slapping some dude. With the back of his hand.
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