Happy Friday, Mofo
“Once I was crazy ‘bout a man.. he mistreated me all the time..” Bessie Smith crooned in the background.
Outside a gentle rain fell, spotting the window. Inside a low voltage lamp cast a warm glow over a woman sat in front of dual computer monitors. She was dreamily scrolling, ignoring for now the meeting invite notification flashing longingly at the bottom right of her screen. Soothed by the warmth of the room, the soft grey skies wallpapering her window and melancholic jazz divas she reached for her almost empty cup of tea. In the process of draining the last of her morning nectar, she heard the distant sound of a drone. It was a dull buzzing sound growing ever closer, inexorably closer.
A hell-spawn, a minuscule gun metal form swooped over her shoulder, whipped around her end-of-the-week coiffeur, and determinedly made for the tender patch of exposed skin revealed by the high-necked floral dress she wore. She moved, she sprang up and flailed her arms about in fury. And so, they danced a hot dance quite unsuited to the whisky drenched voice emanating out of Ella Fitzgerald. It lasted for 30 seconds with no clear winner.
Finally, she slumped, ostensibly defeated, in her pretty yellow chair. Her canary chair, a cheerful beacon in a day cast in gray. A day which was rapidly turning black in her mind. Never mind the chair. That disgusting ill-omened insect, that vile creature, it sensed a victory. In a fit of hubris, swollen with it’s own importance but more likely another’s blood, it circled down and landed with a triumphant flutter of wings on her slack palm. Aha. The pale faced twin of her occupied palm rose steadily, fingers flexed, skin tight with firm intention and SLAMMED over the stupid mosquito and killed it.
