A Prized Mist

There is a women, near to where we’re sat, drinking latte and like the fast ball she appears to be she has begun in a blurted tone shouting down her telephone. “We’re just going to send him to summer school so if he wants the roof above his head then he ought not be mouthing off”. In red fury and blind rage the mollusk on her mantle was inches from being smithereens, hopefully it had of fallen, for then would the ambiance return to its usual hanging hum; the sort this café usually conducts. A neighboring couple, whom had seemed to be enjoying their chardonnay, turned around to politely ask the irate lady to calm down. Not only did she completely ignore them, she continued to bellow commands in regards to the child involved divulging with indiscretion the piles of problems the poor kid had apparently administered in an insidiously sinister strike.

One of the passing waitresses has stopped now and decided that enough is enough, as to tolerate is to enable. Essentially, she firmly clasped the woman’s arm but before she could even get a word out. The woman reciprocated by launching out of her chair breaking the waitresses glare, then grasp. Only to pull a 47 revolver out of her bag. She holds it to her own head. Grinning, then quick nervous laughter is exiled finally in the most relieved manner that could be imagined. Not a second later she spoke frighteningly, harrowing silence from the entire establishment. “Stay away” she muttered as she cocked the pistol. Her finger teasing the trigger. No one was too quick to figure this unraveling situation rested in the balance of her forehand. Beforehand, they’d clearly pegged her as a nasty type but now pity sits on the tongues of everyone involved. Everyone’s face displays quite the picture. There is shock, fear. Oh!

Dear me, she’s really gone and ruined that couples evening.

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