1d (edited) • Miscellaneous Posting
Mouth
The other day, when I got home, I found that a mouth had grown out of the tabletop.
So it goes.
I didn’t actually say that, even though it’s one of my favorite phrases.
It didn’t have a nose, but it consisted of lips, teeth, and all the usual parts of a mouth. Apparently, though, it didn’t have vocal cords, because it couldn’t speak. Still, it sometimes made something like a laugh or a low groaning sound.
It seemed to be able to hear me. When I asked him, “Are you married, or are you happy?” he laughed.
We became good friends. Maybe he was a good guy. He listened patiently to my stories without ever giving me any lip. When I told him a sad story, he tightened his lips sadly. When I told him something funny, he laughed.
Best of all, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
That was very important to me.
To be honest, I’m a CIA agent. I’m also a double agent working for a certain country. Not being able to tell anyone about it had been the biggest source of stress in my life. Learning English is just camouflage. A few years ago, someone became suspicious because my English was too good.
Day after day, I opened up to him about my secrets while drinking.
Oh, why am I calling him “he”?
Because he had a mustache.
Sometimes I trimmed his mustache with scissors.
Thanks to him, my stress gradually eased.
But it didn’t last long.
My position became dangerous. Some bizarre mistake Agent George made accidentally led the CIA executive CS to suspect that I was a double agent. I took all sorts of measures to protect myself, but my stress reached its peak.
And eventually, my silent friend started getting on my nerves.
The other day, I finally forced him to drink and smoke with me. He looked like he was in pain.
I finally managed to get Kramer, the formidable double agent and a real piece of work, on my side, and made it through the crisis.
Tonight, when I got home, I poured myself a drink and tried to clink glasses with him to celebrate. Of course, I wasn’t going to make him drink this time.
But he was gone.
“So it goes,” I whispered.
I sat down at the table and picked up my scissors to cut open an envelope containing a monthly magazine from a certain country that had arrived that day. It was one of the tools I used to keep in touch with the country.
Then I noticed something on the blade.
A few pieces of his cut-off mustache. I stared at them for a while, gently running my index finger over them.
I sprang to my feet and ran out of the house without opening the envelope.
And I never went back.
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Mouth
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