Reptiles Drinking Fear

We came here because the other place

served human meat.

At least, that’s what he said—

barely above a whisper,

like the waitress could be wired.

He’d rather starve than guess wrong.

We sat by the window.

He angled his chair toward the door.

Said they built tunnels under every major city,

that Denver was the worst.

He stirred his coffee four times clockwise.

He never drank it. 

I ordered pancakes.

He went still when the plate landed,

like the batter had been beaten into submission.

Said it reminded him of restraints.

Didn’t explain.

The syrup pooled—dark as a bruise,

as if drawn from a place that still trembles,

too dark to taste.

“Adrenochrome,” he said,

like he was offering me proof in a single word.

Outside, a bus door slammed shut,

and he jerked so hard

his coffee spilled.

Muttered something about black vans again,

wiped it with his sleeve.

The toddler at the next table screamed.

He winced—

like the scream had coordinates only he could read.

He spoke of places I’d never heard—

Château des Amerois,

where the clocks refused to tick

and even the mirrors turned to face the wall. 

They call him crazy.

He doesn’t argue anymore,

but some stories keep telling themselves anyway. 

Sometimes people believe

in reptiles drinking fear

because it’s easier to explain

than the noise they still flinch from.