The following post is completely fictional. No real people were harmed. Or even offended.
It’s Monday again. I hate Mondays. The day after the weekend. The weekend is quiet and I am allowed to be myself, alone, with nobody else around to tell me I’m weird. On Monday the misery starts again. People. Noisy, catty, full of trivial nonsense and criticism of anyone who doesn’t see said trivia as important.
Smile. Rictus grin if I must.
The clementine-permatanned woman in front of me is regaling her friend with gruesome tales of her weekend exploits. Her friend giggles gratingly, vast parrot-perch earrings jingling as her bleached-blonde head shakes in immoderate laughter.
I wait, patiently, trying not to drum my fingertips on the surface of the counter. I fail, and the rhythm of the William Tell Overture makes its presence felt.
Clementine trails to the end of her story, and stops to stare at me. “What’re you lookin’ at?” she demands.
Parrot-Perches also turns to glare at me. If looks could kill… But they don’t. I’m still alive and kicking.
“You,” I reply. “Do you realize that your skin is exactly the same colour as that dress over there? It’s called Tangerine Dream.”
She looks shocked.
Parrot-Perches bristles in response. “We didn’t come ‘ere to be talked to like that,” she squawks.
Clementine is still recovering.
“Ladies, are you going to order or not?”
“Not from ‘ere and not from you,” retorts Clementine, finding her tongue at last.
They retreat, outraged.
“Don’t forget next week there’s a special offer on,” I say, cheerfully.
Parrot-Perches shoots me one last dirty look. “Freak,” she mutters.
Yes, I agree silently. But at least I don’t look like a freak.