Cross legged, I lean into the counter, conscious that the pen moves along paper, that symbols become words and thoughts spill out.
Two bananas left from the bunch cross and I ponder my crossed legs as crossed bananas.
Silly contemplations that ignore any substance.
I indulge in of humor.
My novel, characters—Eduardo, Luis, Hanna—none think silly.
Perhaps it’s time for me to write a comedy.
