by Cheryl Snell
There’s a woman sitting across the table from me, but she is otherwise alone. Although her lips move constantly, she doesn’t speak; the people in her mind do all the talking—she only eavesdrops on their conversations. One afternoon, she leaps up, nearly knocking over the table. Grabs a swizzle stick and wields it like a conductor’s baton.
If we’re not meant to dance, why all this music?
She’s flitting from table to table now, waving her arms and scream-singing lyrics in customers’ faces. Table by table, the people scatter. She continues performing to an empty room until Security comes in. I watch them put her out. They’re gentle with her. They know her. And then, through the wavy glass, I see a silent ambulance roll up and swallow her whole, still waving that tiny baton.
Cheryl Snell’s books include poetry and fiction. Her most recent writing has appeared in Maudlin House, Ghost Parachute, Flash Boulevard, Midway Journal, Boudin, the 2025 Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction, Dribble Drabble Review, Mad Swirl and Eclectica anthologies. She lives in Maryland.
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