Slow Motion Man
By Benjamin Davis
His name was Eam. Reality shot him in slow motion. He worked in Spain, Salamanca, a bar called ‘El Submarino,’ the second bar, up the stairs. When he snapped open a beer, it took a minute. When he mixed a drink, it took ten. But, people waited, people watched. I waited. I watched. His eyes found me; eyes made of whispers heard over the landscape of a pillow. You can’t deny eye contact that lingers in slow motion. He didn’t need to ask what I wanted. He knew. A beer. He snapped it open, slid it over to me. It moved in real-time. He spun the bottle opener once, twice, three times around his finger and slipped it into an armband. By the time he’d finished, my beer was half-gone. He made his way over to me. I waited. Someone sat beside me, a woman. She looked about to cry. She stared at Eam but spoke to me: “Do you think he understands us?” I hadn’t thought about it, didn’t want to; she wasn’t asking for an answer anyway. “We must sound so funny to him, sped up and all.” I nodded even though she wasn’t looking at me. As Eam got closer, she stole all the adoration from the world to smile up at him. But he didn’t stop by her. It was me; I knew it would be. He held his hand out to me. “Hi,” he said, and it rang with all the pleasure that comes from the first note of your favorite song. I took his hand. And there we stayed.
Benjamin Davis is an American writer living somewhere outside of America. He is the author of a novella, The King of FU, and several short works appearing or upcoming in Star 82 Review, Maudlin House, 5×5, Cease, Cows, and elsewhere.
© Benjamin Davis
Photo Credit: Adobe Stock © Andrey Popov
