I’ve got my legs crossed, crushing an empty cup of coffee with my right hand and playing an imaginary piano with my left.
There’s only one person around, occupied with the ever so luxurious architecture of a Wells Fargo branch. Might as well be myself, do what I like to do the most; talk to my self in a soft growly voice as I pinpoint the resentful and the mundane in any social interaction I could lay eyes on.
The usual Ha-Ha’s, here’s a little tip of the iceberg on a very private issue, let’s exchange these niceties to make ourselves more comfortable around each other for the next 15 minutes. The how-are-you’s and the how’s-your-day’s, the pitiful dramaturgy weaved into the very fabric of your deceitful being. The “I cant wait for the weekends to use my vibrator.”, the “I need this loan for a house cause I’m recently married and my wife is special.”.
The unspoken boohoo’s, the body language screaming: who gives a shit?! The “I’m not suicidal but I’ve thought of it.”, the “I’m in a rush but not really, just high on acid.”.
The same old song, the same old dance. And, despite my love for rythm, I hate dancing.
At this point, I’m chuckling to myself. Left hand’s silently and rapidly playing the piano, the leg on top of the other is having a seizure and the cup of coffee has been entirely demolished in my right grip. My internal organs rushing into the mad carnival of hate in the bottomless pits of my soul. But my face, oh my face is on fire.
A silent parade of reactions, all eyes and ears as I find myself surrounded by bread and circuses.
I lick my teeth in an effort to conceal my devilishly handsome smile of utter contempt. Eyebrows strike upwards from the side, hinting at absolute anger whilst also signing approval to the delicious hunk of thighs waiting for a vacant teller.
In a smile, there is joy. In grimace, there is sardonic satisfaction.
“Sorry for the wait Mr. Alshammari, it’ll be just 5 more minutes and we’ll get you taken care of as soon as possible.” The bank manager genuinely sells that thought, with 0% APR financing.
“Oh, that’s fine. I’m not in a rush.” I am.
But how could I resist the joy of watching such painful oblivion and such short, short, shorts.
The piano is imaginary, the coffee cup is dead.
The symphony in my mind is real and I am, undoubtedly, alive.