I didn’t answer. I didn’t feel like it.
His bow was condescending: too low to be taken very seriously, and far lower than the situation demanded. I dreamt—a moment’s inattention—that his Rubbish Hat might tumble from his Rubbish Head. I wished—another moment—that it would. I wondered—a fleeting wonder—which of them was more detestable.
He straightened, hat and head united in conspiracy.
He repeated the question, slowly.
His consonants spat disgust.
Pointedly, I wiped disgust from my cheek.
I sneered at his sneer (or maybe it was just his face), and answered him as vaguely as I could.
I don’t know where the Little Banana Guy’s got to.
he mentioned something about filming cheese.
He was persistent, I was abstract.
who am I kidding? bananas don’t speak.
they go on breakfast in cereal commercials.
I had no reason to be difficult … but he had no reason to be wearing such a Rubbish Hat.
all of us, always, we’re voyeurs.