The woman in the red lumberjack shirt was probably sixty. The man in the windbreaker that said “Chewy” on the back was probably seventy. The woman with the walker next to her chair was probably eighty. The woman standing at the end of the room, white shirt, black sweatshirt, fingers spidered on the tabletop, was probably thirty. She was in charge. Her posture established that. Her expression confirmed it. She didn’t need to say a word. Suddenly the lumberjack shirt let out a cry. “Oh no,” she said. “My pizza! I totally forgot.’ The windbreaker stopped what he was doing, which was folding up a table. “My lord,” he said. “We may never recover.” The walker clucked. “Stop being sarcastic, Ronald,” she said. “That one time you left your ice cream out and it melted you cried like a little baby.” The spider tightened on the table. Everyone got back to work. The source, stationed in the corner, bent over a book he pretended was Accounts Payable, took down every action, every utterance, never noticing his fly was down.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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