Blood Musk

November 20, 2007 - 1:42

The man who I initially assumed was Scottish, is actually quarter-deaf Irish. We're close-proximity perpendicular to one another, and so on top of everything, I can't avoid listening to his phone squalls day in/out. He addresses both male and female as something indistinguishable that sounds closest to the non-word "biud", alternately, "hom-ee". And inbetween phone calls, he sings rambling strains from songs like "California Dreaming"- I have to assume he does this for attention.
The lumbering lech in purchasing keeps finding reasons to linger, and peers around my carefully angled monitor to see what I'm typing. (this)
My biggest mistake of the day is asking them not to ask me to smile. Because now that's all their doing.
The slow simmer is set. I want blood.
Across from me is a watercolor depiction of anonymous looking adults slinking through a rainy downtown that is more sign than building, and confusing for it. The only woman in the 5 deep scene wears a green beret crowning a brown blob, a calf hitting coat, and brown riding boots. She looks as much like me as an indistinguishable water color figure could, and I've fixated on her in the past two days, willing her to move.

I think it would be nice if she just, would.