500: An Anthology of Short Stories

Erna screeches at Josie seated opposite me. The three of us are having brunch at Mugg & Bean; the diners all assiduously avoid looking our way, at the unravelling spectacle.

“Can you believe Gloria, that she dares tell me I have pumpkin pips for brains?” Erna repeats in disbelief.

I simply give her a disdainful look before stabbing another rasher of crispy bacon off my plate. I chew contentedly, relishing empty-headed Erna’s apoplectic fit. She’s amusing without intending to be so.

Green eyes agog, blazing with indignation; her rouged lips quivering and shaking like two overfed Chihuahuas, Erna’s pancake-shaped face turns waxy and as pale as the belly of a stranded fish. A smile climbs unassisted to my face; I make no effort to subdue it.

“Now she has the audacity, the absolute audacity, to smirk!” Erna shouts, spittle liberally spraying Josie’s face as Erna leans in towards her. Josie shuts her eyes in disgust before discreetly using her napkin to wipe away the offending droplets.

“Calm down, Erna,” Josie says. Immediately, my mind responds, “Big mistake, Josie.”

And off Erna goes again, yelping and shrieking, a banshee high on an erroneously perceived slight to her dignity. I’m tempted to tell her, “An ass has more dignity on its ass than you have in your entire body,” but I refrain. I wait for the imbecile to finish her rant.

“Don’t you tell me to calm down. She’s the one who started this with her insult. You should be telling her to apologize instead of telling me to calm down!” Erna screams the last two words at full blast.

The entire restaurant is now staring openly at us. I can only assume that everyone must be thinking we are putting on a better show than any episode of “The Real Housewives” of anywhere.

I’ve had enough. Calmly, taking great care with every action lest I resort to turning the cutlery into weaponry, I put down my knife and fork. My stillness, my deliberate actions, finally has the desired effect on the harpy. She shuts up abruptly, only to bombard me with poisoned darts. All of them miss their target, predictably.

“You’re an idiot, Erna,” I state bluntly. “You’re a waste of good oxygen, a clueless ninny, a walking genetic mutation, and one cell above an amoeba. I suppose I’ll have to explain some of those words to you,” I add, “since you have the vocabulary of a pigeon.”

Josie suddenly coughs in a failed attempt to quell her laughter. Erna is beyond livid.

“Just how exactly can you agree with Minister Angie Motshekga’s assertion that it’s much easier for learners these days to pass English because they have calculators? Here, prove that to me on my phone’s calculator,” I challenge the twit as I pass her my cell phone.

Erna stares at the device as if it were a serpent.

“Just as I thought,” I remark before I get up, gather my things and leave.

I stick Erna with the bill.