A little light reading.

It was a day of birthday lunches. In an effort to just squeeze as much quality personal time into a single visit as humanly possible we took one niece out for a belated birthday lunch and another niece out for an early birthday dinner. In spite of inclement and unseasonably cold weather, a good time was had by all.

At some point in the course of the celebrations we found ourselves in a Chipolte. At some point in the course of the meal we discovered that we each had a different design printed on our cups. Mine, appropriately enough, featured a drawing of a lady with copious amounts of hair: enough hair, it seemed, to consume the skyline of New York.

I joked that it was me.

On the back of each cup was a short excerpt of writing from an author. Mine was by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, not a name that I recognized, but that never stopped me before. It was called “Two Minute Apocalypse” which seemed a bit heavy for a birthday celebration on a cold and rainy day, but what the hell… It would only take two minutes.

The story described an encounter with a redhead with silver eyes on a street corner in New York. It was difficult to tell whether this was an encounter of reality or fantasy. The narrator falls in love and the world ends. The redhead is responsible for both. She also grants him three wishes because he looks sad. He doesn’t think to wish for the world not to end. He wishes to know the meaning of life and the place to get the best chocolate ice cream. She doesn’t tell him either.


I ready the darn thing three times but I still didn’t get it. I wanted to get it: it was about a redhead so I wanted to know whether it was a story that was somehow about me even though the chances of me being the inspiration for a story set in New York was about equal with the chances of me granting (or not granting, I suppose) three wishes and then bringing about the end of the world in under two minutes.

It wasn’t a story about me. As far as I could tell it wasn’t a story about anything. It wasn’t a bad story, it was just a story trying very hard to be about something- poetry, perhaps, or philosophy, but it was written on the side of a Chipolte cup where it would be misunderstood by the likes of me. What a waste. I threw the cup away.


~ by Gwydhar Gebien on May 30, 2015.

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