coocoo chair

coocoo chair
By Meghan Tennison
She and I are sitting at a public coffee table. There are no bugs on this table, but I imagine there once being a whole school of beautifully-coloured chewing gum under its surface. It is covered by a fishy cloth cut into the shape of a big square. How many times has this table cloth been washed today? Maybe once, and maybe more than once a child has used their little, mucus-ridden finger tips to touch these forks. I do not like forks. I would rather suck on a spoon to pass the time.
“I feel so invisible,” she says. “Even though we’re just a foot away from the people on that table, it’s like they’re not even there. I can’t hear what they’re saying at all! I wonder if they even hear me right now.”
Nope, they didn’t. They didn’t even make a movement directed toward us, so we started making faces in their general direction. Still, nothing is bounced back our way, at all.
“Maybe we’re in a bubble,” I suggest. “Maybe this table is forming a massive, sticky bubble to contain anybody who marches inside of it. Nobody looks inside of a bubble, do they? They just pop it when they see one.”
She’s still sucking on her spoon. “What are you babbling on about? That little boy over there sees us perfectly. Don’t try to stare back!”
“I am not!” I say. Little children see everything.