Monday, July 9, 2007

Across the Counter

A customer walked in with a funereal air. She was dressed in shapeless black and her twisted smile made her seem sinister. Her lips curled as she spoke. Disdain seeped out of her sluggish voice. She conversed with distaste, and was like a reluctant corpse caught in the mundanity of living.

I had no courage with her. Offered her a weak smile. Failed to look her in the eye. Tried to wither away to inexistence. Shifted from one foot to another and tried to quell the inner shudder. Then gratitude that the correspondence was fleeting. Just a malefic shadow of a crow flickering across the serenity of my vision.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Pedestrians leave a footprint on us. As we leave upon them.
And I always wonder what they think.