Two-Bite War

She throws nonsense like confetti to the air. It’ll cock your head sideways. Go ahead — try to grok it. Shake your brain. It don’t help. It never helps. Her (s)wordplay jukes and dives from feint to strike, but her inflections surf on quotidian waves: each sentence makes its sense, one after one, just like it’s supposed to. Then you hear ”the puppies’ last war,” and—

Was that really what you heard? The puppies had a war? What possible other words could they be? Guppie, peppy, Persian? Wore, wear, were?

But _that confidence_. Not a confidence like “you better believe or I’ll smoosh you,” more like “It ain’t nothin’... you gonna finish those fries?”

Oh she meant it, about the puppies and the wars. She didn’t believe it, of course, but she made sure you did. A quick assumption of reality, stronger than brain surgery. Confetti in in the air, sparkles everywhere, and you never gather sense enough to duck.

She chomps down a cut of waffle, wipes the syrup from her lips. And just like that, the puppy war is over. A glance out the window, and she’s already prepped her next Jabberwocky. She flicks her hair, waves her fork: a fresh new dream flies at you. Then another. And yet another still. Hear them all, and tilt your head in wonder...