"That will envelop the people."
Still assembled on the coffeehouse patio, Amy /
Judy / Greer contribute avidly to the smoke-infused environs. The
air, like fog, distorts eccentric shadows cast across
graffiti-altered cowboys; unframed details from expropriated
billboards grace the fence; assorted he-man features peer in warped
3D relief. The jukebox squalls. Its revamped Wurlitzer-innards
shuffle shiny stacks of compact discs to deal a counter-cultural
onslaught of cacophony. No one listens. Patrons read, ply laptops,
chat, play chess, and, in the case of one triumvirate, adamantly
You did, too!
Because it got us out of the line of fire; nothing else
seemed practical. I'd have rubber-stamped his being
shot, so long as she pulled the trigger—and did
the dirty deed, of course, off site.
In other words, "Me first; screw the rest of you?" God,
I'm pragmatic. What we really oughta do—and fast—is
Hard-of-heart, Greer's stance, if woefully
consistent, raises the suspicions of his erstwhile intimate.
You make a pass at her; is that it?
Don't be stupid; not my type.
Then why'd you go there? This is Tuesday.
Hey, that's right; you're out of turn.
Greer's withering look at Judy prompts a
gesture of neutrality; palms turned up and spread she
reverts to referee.
Bull! We had to twist your arm before you'd 'condescend'
to pay one visit. Now you're asking me to believe
What I'm asking you is this; are you and Zahra lovers?
Like a fart that imparts its odor to
the overheated atmosphere, Greer's impolitic question hangs
in the air.
Hey; be real! You know as well as
anyone Amy's straight. What's with this shit?
Amy glowers mutely. Greer refuses to relent.
This isn't funny, guys; come on!
The two combatants disengage without
a token of acknowledgement, Amy marching toward the
exit, Greer left glaring into space, while Judy—torn
between allegiances—sighs with consternation.