(no subject)
Carmine fervently itched at his intercostal trunk, and the late summer cicadas chided their horrific dirge - incessantly clacking and grinding in a sine wave hum from the tops of trees surrounding the small parking lot. He covered his mouth over the receiver of the phone, seeing some of the joggers were staring at him, slowly traversing the parking lot toward the other side of the pars course. He clutched the phone between his ear and his shoulder, listing, in the sort of confused posture a dog who misunderstands a command might take. With his other hand, he continued clawing inside his trenchcoat, at the persistent itch.
“Bill, can you get down here?”
“Or you got any guys closer to here?” He scratched, but imbued the stern timbre of a Great Lakes accent - annunciating every syllable of every word, and the ending syllable of each word with a tinge more inflection. It was a regressive act of desperation.
William Comparetto
© 2007