Some mornings, you drop the kleenex box in the dog's water bowl, and you get a good sense of what's coming.
You're late and you don't accomplish much, and just looking at your desk makes you wonder if it's too late to call in sick.
Your hair is stringy and staticky and the combination of your too-short pants and your Hugh Hefner loafers and socks that only match your imagination make you look and feel like a grandpa.
It's not the worst day, just a mulligan. You come home looking forward to an hour of peace before meeting a friend and innocently decide to check the mail.
Suddenly feel the presence of a mentally unhinged person walking behind you. You do not turn around, but keep them in your peripheral view. You hear a mumbled word. Another. You toss out the trash you've been carrying and recognize the mumbler. It's the woman that hates you, and her face is twisted in the familiar way it looks when she sees you. In three years, you have yet to determine why. You decide- as usual- to give her a wide berth, since friendliness failed years ago, and confrontation is not your forte.
"Bitch," she snarls. "Bitch."
You bypass the mail and head home, trying to concede space to the spitty old neighborhood cat.
"BITCH. BITCH." she sputters.
You note the lisp in her voice and wonder if she's deaf.
"BITCH!"
Then you stop and turn, and simply stand your ground. Not challenging forward, not retreating back. You can hear her walking back from the mailboxes behind the cars. You wait.
"BITCH! FUCKING BITCH!"
She sees you looking at her, and quickly looks down.
"Bitch," she mutters again, and continues her angry march home. You stay put, watching until she's out of sight.
No comments:
Post a Comment