The Hemingway Day with five seconds of Friday fiction…
Amidst unfamiliar pandemonium, she remembered loneliness.
These two repulsive little creatures are part of today’s Writing 101 task: to write of a contrast between two things using dialogue…
Her lips were frosted with that pearlescent lipstick that women seemed to covet in the early nineties. The kind that they’d outline with dark liner to give their lips some extra pout. The days before collagen was just a reasonably priced syringe away. They moved like fish lips when she prattled. “Put your name on the top of the form. Fill in the questions and the doctor will see you when you’re ready.”
It was the speech of a robot. I ticked my way to question five.
Have you had a poor appetite or been overeating?
I looked over at Fish Lips. “What would you constitute as over eating?”
Her sickly pink fluffy jumper hugged her chubby arms and made her somewhat marshmallow like in appearance. She wasn’t the best judge of portion control.
“Who cares kid. Just tick in the middle.” She went back to reading her Real People magazine. Pages of relatable souls that had gone through terrible times. ‘I was 20 stone by the time I was 13.’ ‘I sold my baby for £25.’ ‘I was stabbed by my husband’s father’s brother in law’…
It was question seven this time.
Have you had trouble concentrating on things like reading the paper or watching the TV?
Fish Lips was rustling in her desk drawers. She pulled out a toffee and started twisting the shiny wrapper with her globulous blubbery pink sausage fingers.
I stared at her until she looked up. Pools of toffee moisture had collected in the corners of those lips as she smacked them together with each chew.
“What kid?” She said through her caramel mess.
“Does pornography count? As watching TV?”
Her spidery eyelashes came together as she narrowed her eyes at me. She crinkled her nose and hissed “Vile creature.”
The final question, number nine.
Have you thought that you’d be better off dead or hurting yourself in some way?
Her lips were smooching louder as she poured a pile of toffees on her desk and shoved another into the load.
Again, I stared at her. “Does it count if I’ve thought that someone else might be better off dead?”
She stopped chewing and held her mouth open, a syrupy goo of saccharine and pearlescent lipstick.
I continued, “That I thought of hurting someone else?”
As I said it I noticed the gleaming red handles of a pair of scissors that were casually laid next to her pile of toffees.
Revenge is sweet.