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Write with Me

February 27, 2019

 

I sat back into the broken booth seat as the owner of this crappy store walked away from me, huffing on a breath that was almost painful to let out.

 

My ego was bruised by a man in overalls. Horrors.

 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid overall-wearing man, stupid saccharine flapjacks--because 'pancakes' is overrated--stupid cornfields.

 

What did I do to deserve corn country, anyway? Blow one too many credit card limits? It was so my fault Mom gave me a credit card. She practically endorsed a shopping addiction! What did she think I was going to do with it, use it as a bookmark? Please.

 

“You know,” a voice from my side called, voice dripping in a southern drawl. At first I paid no mind to it, until he murmured, “You’re not going to get anywhere with an attitude like that.”

 

I turned to find the person possessing the voice, spotting a boy with blonde hair sitting at the next table over. He was wearing—of all things—plaid, that was folded up to his elbows and stained with what looked like grease. His hair was long, curling over his ears and nearly grazing his collar, streaked with…paint?

 

“Are you talking to me?” I asked, staring him down with a look that made guys back in NY wilt.

 

He raised one blonde eyebrow. “Unless there’s some other girl who just got a smack-down from Crazy Bob”

 

Crazy Bob? What kind of land was I sent to? “Mind your own business, cowboy,” I spat, turning back to stare at the ugly laminated menu.

 

Nothing on it looked remotely appetizing, and I didn’t know what was worse: that I didn’t have a car to drive away from here or that I had to sit here in this smelly booth in the place that just laughed off my interview, waiting for my dad to pick me back up. Like a little kid.

 

“The corner of Appleton Drive and Elm is always looking for workers, and they’d take someone half as pretty as you,” the boy went on. “With your heels and red lipstick and all.”

 

My head whipped back to his as fast as lightning, eyes narrowing into slits so fine that his face looked squished. “Excuse me?”

 

He raised his hands level with his shoulders. “Just trying to help you out.”

 

“Did you just call me a hooker?” I practically screeched, drawing the attention of the old couple sitting a few booths away.

 

“‘Course not,” he replied evenly. “Big Frank sells his milk on that corner, everyone knows that. He’s always looking for someone to wear the cow costume. Believe it or not, not many people want to wear udders.”

 

Was this guy being serious? Crazy Bob, Big Frank? What was his name, Annoying Boy? It would've been fitting. 

 

 

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