Histrionic tantrums with Borderline tendencies rippled through Loaf n’ Jug alongside an unearned sense of entitlement. She tosses malice casually across a warm December morning, echoed by scoffs tainted with store bought grape gum. It stains scorn such a brilliant purple. Snake skin boots barred only by a rubber sole find their rude metronome; one that bounces with rancor and delight. Its tempo is lovely, gorgeous even. It brings back memories of school-yard bullies, the ones whose kicks found exposed ribs.
“$3.15 please,” spawns a smirk and a shotgun blast of loose change, bouncing off a name tag that reads Bruce. Now here’s a personality disorder that really knows how to treat the service industry like the shit it is. The fall of nickel-plated rain ricochets a beautiful carom, interrupted only by the “bing-bong” of someone who must’ve remembered how passive they are.
The breeze holds the door open, and stirs this sociopath’s hair just like Reality TV. It’s only so often you get to smell real narcissism and I breathe it deep. Strawberry Suave and Coca Butter, cascade over her pleather jacket, past her faux fur hood.
“OK, you’re all set,” mutters Bruce, rising up through chain-store purgatory with a grunt that attests to both his grey handlebar mustache and the knowledge that this won’t be the only dirt dyed blonde he sees today.
“I want my change,” she smiles, barring her venom stained violet teeth, popping her hip so hard it approaches the threshold of dislocation.
After a suspenseful thirty seconds of counting, Bruce bequeaths $1.45 into a palm flanked on all sides by fake nails.
It’s too bad you can’t spit in someone’s cigars.