Diana was engaging me in a long rambling rigmarole on her life yesterday, involving a young man’s closing a lift door on her and using a walkie-talkie when he should’ve been getting her a chair to sit on. Candice came as she was going apparently pointlessly on and she was keeping an eye on her and telling her not to close her door because she’d mislaid her keys yet again. I’m leaving you to work out which pronoun applies to which woman. The second ‘she’ might prove confusing since you might think Candice was the one keeping an eye on Diana, as she was, as Diana was on her who was distracting my attention from her. Got that? And the rest? The point of her, Diana’s preamble was as I deduced and said, “You want me to go for your benefit?”

Candice and I bleached out a mark left by my exuding refuse bag I leave outside before composting the contents. I asked a workman why he was waiting. For his phone Tina had commandeered and was shouting into in order to get some work done. It was on her ceiling, some damage from a leakage. I took a look. A fault was barely visible, about one tenth the peeling paintwork I have on the identical spot on my kitchen ceiling. It was a fuss about nothing she justified by “When you’re in the right, you’re…” right, or something. She could’ve done it herself except Tina does nothing for herself, I explained to Candice. She doesn’t even pull out a tape measurement to 85 cm to measure the height of a prospective new sofa or learn how to uncap a bleach bottle. She has me do it.

Diana interrupted with railing against her bete noire or devil incarnate, Adrian Glover, who she wants believed has nothing better to do than persecute her, in this instance by having erected the building at the bottom of the street when we have car parks and something else already. I can’t take this crap seriously and she knows it but will persist.

I resume my breakfast, shave and clean my teeth, also dressing, before going down to pick up permission, card and pin no. She’s not in. I go to the post office and back. She’s still not in. I recoonoitre Waitrose. No sign. I briefly go to the library to check emails. On the way back I come across Leslie who’s going for Diana’s benefit. She’d gone for a coffee. “Fuck her,” I said.

I detonated in at her door, “Instead of going for a coffee, you should’ve waited for me to come down.” Doesn’t sound like a detonation, does it? It’s the way I said it:a grenade going off. She stuttered out of her kitchen clutching her heart.


About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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One Response to Outburst

  1. Dan Bodine says:

    Write on! my good man. Enjoyable quirkiness.


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