Stuck for words today, trying to compliment H. on losing weight without saying "you were fat". I began, "Congratulations, H., you are now more cypress than oak, more pear than apple…"
When I was young, my parents came into an inheritance. Life did not change, only from then on mother would cut my hair with a silver bowl.
Today I remember my friend, Rev. Lloyd. He was a man of conviction. He believed in celibacy, but only in theory.
"Were you calling me?" she asked, through gritted teeth. She spat out a few pebbles and tried again: "Were you calling me?"
"Was I calling you what?" I returned, smarting at the accusation.
"Very well. I'll return to my desk."
She ambled back to a maple desk, covered with papers, candy wrappers, and coffee rings, which she removed from her dress before arriving at the desk, and got to work.
"Good morning, Mister…?" she queried, looking me up and down. I nodded in unison with her looking-me-up-and-down, enabling her to focus, at which point she completed the question with recognition: "Mr. Fargus."
"Hello Miss…" I began bobbing my head in similar fashion, but she refused to cooperate, instead shaking her head profusely. You can't win them all. But then, would you want them all?
"Mr. Lupino will see you shortly. Take a seat," she said, motioning invitingly to the waiting room behind me.
"Thank you, Miss…" I said, resolutely, deciding this to be her name.
I moseyed to the waiting area and looked around to see if I had company. Not a peep, so I reclined full length, making use of the entire bench.
Miss… coughed, eh-heghm, as if to correct my behaviour by way of expelling the contents of her lungs into her throat.
"Cough drop?" I offered.
"No, cough went up, actually."
|
39-year-old Irene J. from Liverpool had just had her hair done like all the other girls, but her fragile body could not sustain the weight. As she walked home, she got shorter and shorter and passersby heard bones breaking and organs squishing. She had reached her front gate when her body buckled and the hair came crashing down. She was found unresponsive by her neighbour. "I thought it was a new wheelie bin at first but then I saw it was wearing Irene's shoes. She was quiet as a mouse. I tried drawing her out, told her about the postman's scandal with the girl at number eight, but she wouldn't say a word." By strange coincidence, Mr. J was the husband of Mrs. J. Late to the scene, he was visibly distraught. First responders reassured him the hairdo was intact. |  Irene J. from Liverpool, moments before her tragic death. She was smiling because the artist wore odd socks. |
