I sat in the
park in town reading my newspaper. A few minutes later a young pretty woman aged about 30 or so came and
sat on the bench next to me. She had her face painted like a cat. I thought it was unusual and said nothing, continuing to read my newspaper.
She
opened a lunch-box and started nibbling at a tuna sandwich. I knew it was tuna because of its aroma. I thought, "Tuna ... cat ... makes sense I suppose," but still said nothing.
A moment or two later she said, "My humanoids hurt me badly!"
I was astounded and puzzled at the same time, in that order, that she would be so personal. I hesitated and then replied coyly, "have you tried Preparation H?"
She continued eating her lunch and said nothing for a moment or two. Then she said, "I have been with them for a while. And now they're gone ... I miss them."
I stopped reading the article about the increasing price of frying pans. I was confused and did not know what to say.
She delicately sipped a drink from her Thermos flask and then, hesitating,
she stood up and said, "Walk this way ..."
I thought, "Why should I? I don't have humanoids!" But again I said nothing.
I pretended not to have heard her and continued reading my newspaper.
It was obvious now was not the time for me to discover why frying pans
are so expensive.
She looked puzzled and annoyed. She sat down near me again. Hesitated a little and then asked, "Are you known as Fire Balls?"
What a cheek, I thought. It is none of her business what I am called in
the privacy of my own home. I mean ... I will not be insulted by a woman painted as a cat. How direct and so
personal can she get? I've a good mind to report her to "Feline Weekly".
She noticed my subdued, hidden anger, silent reaction and then
apologised saying, "You do look like Fire Balls. The picture I have got
is all creased and you do have a lot of wrinkles on your face; a bit
like a bed that's been slept in!"
I was fuming yet retained my composure. Now that is really personal. What business is it of her what
the state of my bed is in the morning and what I am called when I am in it?
I would have liked
to have answered something intelligent, pointed and articulate but I
did not have my dictionary with me at the time.
Before I said anything, she got up and left.
I hate it when people walk away with the last word. Not giving me a chance to respond.
"My face is wrinkly is it?" I thought to myself, "well ... ... your
sandwiches still had the crust on!" Whatever that means ... but at least
my mind had composed an answer albeit it was too late as I saw her depart.
