JК
Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 48 из 138What is her problem?
Clearly it’s me.
I try to ignore her as I head for the door, but I can feel her eyes boring into me from behind those cheap large-rimmed glasses she wears. Her stare is relentless, she won’t give it a rest; and as much as I want to keep walking out to the street, I can’t help making a little detour. Right up into her face.
Whipping out my camera, I aim the lens an inch away from her pointy nose.
“Take a picture, you old bag, it lasts longer!” I yell.
Click.
I spin around, not waiting for her angry reaction. Everyone else in the lobby is now staring at me, but I say nothing more. I aim for the exit and look straight ahead.
What’s come over you, Kristin?
This is so unlike me. I simply don’t do things like this, yelling at people, getting in their faces.
It’s scary.
And yet, scarier still is that I enjoyed it.
With everything happening lately, I’m acting more and more on impulse – thinking, saying, and doing things I normally don’t. Those little red flags, the ones that are supposed to pop up in my brain, have mysteriously disappeared.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!”
It takes me a second to realize that the grunge-looking guy playing guitar for tips on the corner is talking to me. I nearly plowed right into him.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I’m already a block from my building, head down and oblivious to everything and everyone. The guy’s right; I need to watch where I’m going. Of course, that raises a good question. Wheream I going? I stand still for a moment, thinking of what might have been. My day with Michael, the picnic he mentioned. We’d talk, hold each other, drink some wine… and I’d feel so much better.
Instead, I feel as if my day is ruined before it even started. The dream, the burning smell, the rash…
Then, out of nowhere, I have an idea.
Something a little, well, crazy.
Very unlike me. At least the way I was until a few days ago.
“Hey, lady, you mind moving along? You’re hurting business.”
I turn to the stringy-haired guy plucking away on his guitar, every other chord off-key. His ragged guitar case lies open at his feet, and I glance at the torn black velvet lining sprinkled with spare change. And I do mean spare. A quarter or two is the mother lode for this troubadour.
“I’m serious, lady,” he barks. “Beat it! Get out of here!”
Before I know it, I’m right in his face too.
Clearly it’s me.
I try to ignore her as I head for the door, but I can feel her eyes boring into me from behind those cheap large-rimmed glasses she wears. Her stare is relentless, she won’t give it a rest; and as much as I want to keep walking out to the street, I can’t help making a little detour. Right up into her face.
Whipping out my camera, I aim the lens an inch away from her pointy nose.
“Take a picture, you old bag, it lasts longer!” I yell.
Click.
I spin around, not waiting for her angry reaction. Everyone else in the lobby is now staring at me, but I say nothing more. I aim for the exit and look straight ahead.
What’s come over you, Kristin?
This is so unlike me. I simply don’t do things like this, yelling at people, getting in their faces.
It’s scary.
And yet, scarier still is that I enjoyed it.
With everything happening lately, I’m acting more and more on impulse – thinking, saying, and doing things I normally don’t. Those little red flags, the ones that are supposed to pop up in my brain, have mysteriously disappeared.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!”
It takes me a second to realize that the grunge-looking guy playing guitar for tips on the corner is talking to me. I nearly plowed right into him.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I’m already a block from my building, head down and oblivious to everything and everyone. The guy’s right; I need to watch where I’m going. Of course, that raises a good question. Wheream I going? I stand still for a moment, thinking of what might have been. My day with Michael, the picnic he mentioned. We’d talk, hold each other, drink some wine… and I’d feel so much better.
Instead, I feel as if my day is ruined before it even started. The dream, the burning smell, the rash…
Then, out of nowhere, I have an idea.
Something a little, well, crazy.
Very unlike me. At least the way I was until a few days ago.
“Hey, lady, you mind moving along? You’re hurting business.”
I turn to the stringy-haired guy plucking away on his guitar, every other chord off-key. His ragged guitar case lies open at his feet, and I glance at the torn black velvet lining sprinkled with spare change. And I do mean spare. A quarter or two is the mother lode for this troubadour.
“I’m serious, lady,” he barks. “Beat it! Get out of here!”
Before I know it, I’m right in his face too.