(no subject)
My phone was ringing? I pulled at my pocket, and squinted against the glare of the sunlight to make out the faintly illuminated letters reading "Gladys." My heart leaped.
"How wonderful," I thought, "what a splendid time of day for a nice chat with my good friend Kathryn!"
The phone flipped open with a little work from my stiff fingers, and I lifted it to my ear (which was shuddering with anticipation) only to hear . . . ringing? My excitement quickly dissolved into abject confusion. The words with followed were all too familiar words to me.
"This is Kathryn Jean . . ."
The phone babbled on, but I ignored it, dropping my bloodshot eyes and my trembling hand to my waist. My knees threatened to buckle.
"What the fuck is going on here?" I asked out loud.
"Excuse me?" came the reply from a startled bank teller at the Federal Credit Union.
Slowly my head tilted up. My wide open eyes bored into hers. My powerful lungs greedily sucked in air to prepare. A faint beep emanated weakly from my ridiculous phone.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!" I bellowed, stomping my foot with all of my might and flinging my phone high into the air.
Tears left gleaming arabesques on her stupid, pouting face, then dropped with soft taps onto her keyboard, mere inches from her clenched fists. I could have sworn that the puddles that quickly formed were sizzling. A word from me could quiet the storm, I knew, but my mind was reeling and as useless as the whorish teller's. My vocabulary was restricted to phrases which described my treacherous phone, phrases which flowed non-stop through my brain. Phrases with words like "fetid."
"You're fetid." I ventured. She didn't hear me.
Should I reach over the counter and slap her? The question confused me. What possible reason could I have for slapping her? Nevertheless, the time for her hysterics was long past. I spun on my heel and began my march out the door, turning my back on her high pitched sobs which sounded suspiciously like lonely kittens.
"How wonderful," I thought, "what a splendid time of day for a nice chat with my good friend Kathryn!"
The phone flipped open with a little work from my stiff fingers, and I lifted it to my ear (which was shuddering with anticipation) only to hear . . . ringing? My excitement quickly dissolved into abject confusion. The words with followed were all too familiar words to me.
"This is Kathryn Jean . . ."
The phone babbled on, but I ignored it, dropping my bloodshot eyes and my trembling hand to my waist. My knees threatened to buckle.
"What the fuck is going on here?" I asked out loud.
"Excuse me?" came the reply from a startled bank teller at the Federal Credit Union.
Slowly my head tilted up. My wide open eyes bored into hers. My powerful lungs greedily sucked in air to prepare. A faint beep emanated weakly from my ridiculous phone.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!" I bellowed, stomping my foot with all of my might and flinging my phone high into the air.
Tears left gleaming arabesques on her stupid, pouting face, then dropped with soft taps onto her keyboard, mere inches from her clenched fists. I could have sworn that the puddles that quickly formed were sizzling. A word from me could quiet the storm, I knew, but my mind was reeling and as useless as the whorish teller's. My vocabulary was restricted to phrases which described my treacherous phone, phrases which flowed non-stop through my brain. Phrases with words like "fetid."
"You're fetid." I ventured. She didn't hear me.
Should I reach over the counter and slap her? The question confused me. What possible reason could I have for slapping her? Nevertheless, the time for her hysterics was long past. I spun on my heel and began my march out the door, turning my back on her high pitched sobs which sounded suspiciously like lonely kittens.