Post by reasonably_crazy on Aug 6, 2006 2:35:42 GMT -5
This was something I wrote in Creative Writing not too long ago, and really, I think just about anyone who reads this can relate to it in some way.
Perhaps, had my throbbing headache been less painful, and perhaps, had my mood not already been tarnished by chattering twelve year old (on the incredibly unsanitary public bus that I’d been forced to take to get to my favorite café), and perhaps, had I not gone to the café to have a nice, QUIET, cup of coffee- perhaps then I would not have been contemplating violent, bloody homicide. But, such as it was, the knife meant for buttering my scone was looking more and more to be a viable weapon.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. No. No. No. No! Okay, you know what, Dwight? No- you listen to me.”
She was every teenage stereotype come to life: blonde, beautiful, and wearing a bra stuffed with silicone.
“Nooooooooo!” This was delivered in an unnaturally high squeal that served to drive a frozen nail through my pounding skull- and probably shatter the earpiece on the other line. “No. No. No. No. Not okay. Not okay. No! No. No. No! Dwight, you can’t do this to me!”
“Oh, but he can,” I hissed to myself. I found myself clutching the butter knife in a death grip, my wrist making nervous little twitchy movements. I forced myself to relax, and the knife dropped reluctantly to the table.
“Dwight, we can work this out. We’re strong. Our love is strong, and we can get through anything, baby!”
My headache was instantly compounded by a sweeping wave of nausea. I had thought her senseless repetition was bad. This- this was worse. I found myself ready to scream at her, but managed to fight the urge down. It wouldn’t take much, I thought, not much at all to make me snap. My right hand twitched towards the knife, but picked up my coffee cup instead.
“Remember how good it used to be? How it was so easy and light at the beginning? How much fun it was? Those were good times. Think of the good times, baby. The good times. The good times. Remember- you know- our ‘first time?’”
I choked on my coffee. Oh. My. God.
"What do you MEAN, 'it was terrible?!'" she shrieked in the middle of my getaway. That was it.
"Do you not think that maybe- just MAYBE- that this conversation might better be conducted IN PRIVATE?" I screamed at her, appalled. My headache was pulsing, my stomach was writhing, my temper was gone, and the knife was in my hand again.
The girl stood quickly and whirled around to face me, tipping her chair and sloshing her triple nonfat mocha all over the table. Her face was flushed a brilliant red, cut by sooty lines of mascara and tears. Her rhinestone-slathered cell phone glittered by her right ear, held by a perfectly manicured hand. Ice-blue eyes shot daggers from between an unnatural mass of clumped eyelashes.
"Dwight," she said frostily, still looking straight at me, "you and I are THROUGH." With a sparkle the cell phone was snapped shut and disappeared into a carnation-pink handbag that matched her shirt. With a last baleful glare the blonde girl turned on her stiletto heel and marched off, the very picture of indignance.
I was still standing, the knife now hanging weakly from my fingers. Everyone in the cafe was staring at me. Slowly I sat down, and people began to look away. I sipped my coffee. My cell phone rang. I ignored it.
Perhaps, had my throbbing headache been less painful, and perhaps, had my mood not already been tarnished by chattering twelve year old (on the incredibly unsanitary public bus that I’d been forced to take to get to my favorite café), and perhaps, had I not gone to the café to have a nice, QUIET, cup of coffee- perhaps then I would not have been contemplating violent, bloody homicide. But, such as it was, the knife meant for buttering my scone was looking more and more to be a viable weapon.
“Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. No. No. No. No! Okay, you know what, Dwight? No- you listen to me.”
She was every teenage stereotype come to life: blonde, beautiful, and wearing a bra stuffed with silicone.
“Nooooooooo!” This was delivered in an unnaturally high squeal that served to drive a frozen nail through my pounding skull- and probably shatter the earpiece on the other line. “No. No. No. No. Not okay. Not okay. No! No. No. No! Dwight, you can’t do this to me!”
“Oh, but he can,” I hissed to myself. I found myself clutching the butter knife in a death grip, my wrist making nervous little twitchy movements. I forced myself to relax, and the knife dropped reluctantly to the table.
“Dwight, we can work this out. We’re strong. Our love is strong, and we can get through anything, baby!”
My headache was instantly compounded by a sweeping wave of nausea. I had thought her senseless repetition was bad. This- this was worse. I found myself ready to scream at her, but managed to fight the urge down. It wouldn’t take much, I thought, not much at all to make me snap. My right hand twitched towards the knife, but picked up my coffee cup instead.
“Remember how good it used to be? How it was so easy and light at the beginning? How much fun it was? Those were good times. Think of the good times, baby. The good times. The good times. Remember- you know- our ‘first time?’”
I choked on my coffee. Oh. My. God.
"What do you MEAN, 'it was terrible?!'" she shrieked in the middle of my getaway. That was it.
"Do you not think that maybe- just MAYBE- that this conversation might better be conducted IN PRIVATE?" I screamed at her, appalled. My headache was pulsing, my stomach was writhing, my temper was gone, and the knife was in my hand again.
The girl stood quickly and whirled around to face me, tipping her chair and sloshing her triple nonfat mocha all over the table. Her face was flushed a brilliant red, cut by sooty lines of mascara and tears. Her rhinestone-slathered cell phone glittered by her right ear, held by a perfectly manicured hand. Ice-blue eyes shot daggers from between an unnatural mass of clumped eyelashes.
"Dwight," she said frostily, still looking straight at me, "you and I are THROUGH." With a sparkle the cell phone was snapped shut and disappeared into a carnation-pink handbag that matched her shirt. With a last baleful glare the blonde girl turned on her stiletto heel and marched off, the very picture of indignance.
I was still standing, the knife now hanging weakly from my fingers. Everyone in the cafe was staring at me. Slowly I sat down, and people began to look away. I sipped my coffee. My cell phone rang. I ignored it.