The Promenade

I sit on a bench in the promenade in Santa Monica, talking on the cell phone before I go into the gym. My gym bag is beside me on the bench. I feel a movement, look over, and see that a young guy, with spiked blonde hair and a bright pink tee shirt with sequins, is putting his bag beside mine. The suddenness of his action surprises me and to protect my bag and to be polite and give him more room, I scoot mine over. I look up at him. 
"I don't want your bag," he says. 
"Of course not," I say. "I was just startled." I immediately want to make up for what he thinks was insulting to him. 
His voice is mincing and his facial expressions are exaggerated. "Don't talk to me!" he says. He points his finger at me and shakes it. "I hate you! Don't ever speak to me again!" He is screaming; his voice fills the area. He grabs his bag and hurries off, running into a sporting goods store. This happened before I could say anything more. 


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Copyright 2012 James P. White All Rights Reserved (No part of this work may be reproduced in any way, except to quote for blogs or reviews, without the express permission of the author)