May I help you, sir?”
What was that sound? It was like a car driving over gravel-ridden roads flooded with starving pigeons meeting the shrieks of a prepubescent boy shoving nails up his ass! It was actually deafening: if she wasn’t a smoker, well, he was Oprah Winfrey just disguised as a 24-year-old mixed-race boy.
He looked up.
The woman was a shriveled prune. Her hair was bleached blonde, which really didn’t compliment her complexion: the absolutely, stunningly gorgeous tone of beef jerky drowning in midsummer sun. Her shirt was leopard print with a V-neck deeper than the Mariana Trench, her leather thong visible through her sheer leggings. To top it all off, neon green stilettos that she obviously dipped in glitter herself, and she probably would claim to have bought the shoes like that but it looked homemade and cheap, which was, if the way she presented herself said anything, her in parenthesis.
Her makeup was half clown, half child-finding-their-mum’s-lipstick-collection-and-having-a-field-day. And to top it all off, from this one twenty-five second encounter Jamie had come to the conclusion that this woman had the personality of a rock. Yeah, that’s right, a rock- and not even a remotely interesting rock, either, just a boring rock, probably that one rock everyone trips on when going on a hike. And then the same sequence of events: falls, an outburst of profanity, throws rock away. But then what happens? Somebody else trips on the same rock despite it being in a new location. That was this woman’s purpose in life: to be a nuisance to everybody going on a hike, or in this case, admiring the local art.
Oliver Jones 9L