I could hear everything in the room--the rustling of someone's coat two rows behind me, the sniffling of someone catacorner from me and the girl sitting just one row ahead, two seats off to the right eating potato chips, her damn potato chips. I fucking hate her. That damn crunching sound, like the crepitations of some poor hand caught in a machine. The rustling of the bag and the crunch of her teeth upon the chip fill me with the smoldering sensation of hatred for all of humanity, its vices and virtues concentrated upon the point of her bautiful white teeth, so delicate, so pearly white and beautiful and yet insistant and painful, their terrible sound tearing apart the noble silence of the examination room and squeezing my head. I look around the room and see three more people eating: two of them, potato chips, the third a sandwich -- the fucking cheek he has! "I have to get out of here," I almost moan, stifling my voice as hard as I can.
Type: art.prose.original
Produced by: Jan Osten
Notes: Short story
No comments:
Post a Comment