She sat opposite me, wearing spectacles and a shawl, she pulled the book from her bag. I couldn’t see the title of the book. As she opened the book I saw the first of the tentacles slowly stretch out. The woman yawned in appreciation of the tentacle and I could see she had no teeth, her empty mouth looked like a wet tobacco pouch, dark brown and sticky. She gazed at the open book and another tentacle released it’s way out of the page slowly moving towards her face. Her eyes fixed into the book and slowly they faded darker. As she slowly turned each page the book began to drip an oily liquid, splats fell onto her bronze buckled shoes all the while continually staring into the book. More tentacles came reaching out to her like skinny Medusa’s snakes. I lifted my feet onto the seat to avoid the oil getting on me, she sat zoned and serene. By now the book was a big slimy oily tentacle mess and yet she still just gazed into it, turning sticky page after sticky page with tentacles wrapped around her wrists and up her jacket sleeve. She then slowly took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The tentacles started to retract away back into the book and the oil reversed its way over everything until she was simply back to normal. She opened her eyes, stood up and walked away towards the park. I looked to my left to where my book was rested next to me. People born 1977 The Chinese Year of the Snake. I left it where it was and headed off home.
I am Dave Pen