LUKA: SIXTEEN YEARS LATER
BY CHRISTOPHER MONKS
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Hello. My name is Luka. I live on the second floor. I live upstairs from you. Yes, I think you've seen me before. Right? Sorry. I'm never sure. I suffer from being overly aware of how I'm perceived by others. Sort of a self-esteem issue, I guess. My bad. No reason you need to hear this. Listen, may I borrow some flour? I'm making doughnuts. It's a recipe of my mother's. I hate her. My bad. Lost it for a second there. No need for you to know that I hate my mother. That wasn't some kind of cry for help or anything. Honest. Anyway, while I'm here I wanted to warn you that if you hear something late at night. I don't know, like some kind of trouble or some kind of fight. Please, just don't ask me what it was, just don't ask me what it was, just don't ask me what it was! Phew. Sorry, sometimes I only feel satisfied if I say certain phrases three times in a row. It's like an itch I have to scratch. Do you ever itch like that? Well, do you? Huh? My bad. I know that's kind of an awkward question for this early in our friendship. I guess I can be clumsy sometimes. I try not to talk too loud, though. It's loud enough in my head as it is. I don't know what I mean by that either. Wait; do you know what I mean? Of course you don't. You're not inside my head, so how could you possibly know what I'm thinking? Guess anyway. No, really, make a guess. I just need to check and make sure you don't know what's inside my head. I'll give you a hint: I'm thinking of a type of woodland creature and a major European airport. Go ahead. Shoot. Guess. Ugh. Sorry. There I go again. My bad. I noticed you have cable. Neat. We don't have cable. Mother says it's too pricey. We only watch cooking shows. If I'm good, Mother sometimes rents me a pornographic movie. You think I could come over later and watch MTV? I love music videos. Maybe I'll bring some of my homemade doughnuts. They're tasty motherfuckers. Ugh. My bad. That was way over the top. Maybe it's because I'm crazy, but I try to not act too proud. Just a rule I have. "Stay humble, Luka," that's what I tell myself. Then Mother hits me with her spatula. "Stop talking to yourself!" she yells. It's okay, though; she only hits until I cry and after that you donít ask why. You just don't argue anymore, you just don't argue anymore, you just don't argue anymore! Phew. You're staring at the mark on my face, aren' you? No, it's okay. Stare on. No big whoop. Yes, I think I'm okay. I walked into the door again. Well, if you ask, that's what I'll say. Oops. You weren't supposed to hear that part. I talked out loud again. Don't hit me! Ugh. My bad. You aren't even holding a spatula. Silly me. What an imagination I have! It's not your business anyway. What goes on with me, my mother, and her spatula is private. We're pretty private people, in general. I guess I like to be alone. With nothing broken, nothing thrown. I don't know what I mean by that either. Wait; do you know what I mean? Of course you don't. You're not inside my head. A chipmunk and Heathrow. You didn't know, right? You couldn't have known. Right? Nope. Course not. You don't know how I am. And don't ask either because I'll never tell you. So don't. Just don't ask me how I am, just don't ask me how I am, just don't ask me how I am! Phew. Alrighty, I'm off to doughnut making. Thanks for the flour. Until, tomorrow then. Bye. * [Christopher Monks does this.] [Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/luka.html]
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