“Adele,” he says. She smiles, walks to
where he’s sitting. “Jerry,” she replies,
“the usual.” No question, hardly a reply,
something else like an understanding
where words are only a formality, a hiding
of what is true. He says, “Yes.” She returns
glass in hand, concern now in her eyes as she
looks more closely at his which seem to be
searching for what can be avoided. “You
okay?” places the glass down, sees a slight
tremor in his hand as he reaches for it.
He lifts up his eyes, says, “I don’t know.”
“Adele!” she turns and goes to another
customer. ‘The voice said,’ he whispers. ‘truth
is beyond good and evil, right and wrong.
The ultimate reality of what is and what
is done with it – the question of what is
truth is the question of what fits and
the consequences that arise: the natural
or the unnatural realities. The harmony
and clarity and integrity. The composition
of which is not exclusive and what you call
right and wrong, lies – which are truths disguised –
good and bad, categories too simple for
the complexity of a life, of living. Not to be
confused with complications, debris one is
unwilling to be free of.’ Jerry finishes. Raises
a finger. Adele arrives with another. “You see
a ghost or something?” “Maybe.” “Oh, Sarah called.
Said if you stopped by to remind you she has the kids
for soccer practice tonight. Get something to eat here.”
Adele smiles. He takes a deep breath, lets out a long
sigh. “Let me see a menu.” “You know what you
want.” He pauses. Tilts the glass. “It’s not on the
menu what you want.” “The Fallen Angel burger,”
he says. “What is truth, Adele?” She gives a slight
smile and walks away. Looks back, says, “Comin’
right up.” The kitchen doors swinging shut.
-Byron Hoot
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