Thursday, June 21, 2012

The Battlegrounds

***Class Weekly Prompt: Play with description. 

          The thick clear glass is fully erect in front of me. Framed by two large metal poles. It’s sleek and the world behind its wall is still alive and buzzing unhindered by its presence. Its first priority belongs to the pastries, the tarts, and the sandwiches that look to it for protection. Both a bodyguard and a thing of beauty, the glass wall stands before the busy crowds of patrons to let them know,

            “Hello, welcome to Paper or Plastik. Do not touch, but please look all you want.”

            It’s like a cocktease really. But I digress.

            A white paper towel follows my hand as I smooth the surface of the glass and wipe away any remnants of fingertips, the markings of a hungry and not yet satisfied customer. However as I wipe I’m curious of the number of prints I see today – only a few.
            As I return myself to the other side to join my allies amongst the pastries, the tarts, and the sandwiches, working for the greater customer service good with my fellow soldiers, I see her. She is a tall opponent. I estimate five feet and seven inches. As she approaches the clear sparkle of the glass she bends down and looks. I smile in her direction and allow her to have her moment with the edible merchandise. Every person likes to have that moment, even if it’s just a quick one, but interrupt and you will incur the wrath of your enemy earlier than necessary. Hence the brilliance behind our weapon of choice: the glass. Not only there to protect but state, along with its welcome,
            “I am the boundary.”

            I see its purpose. She, the five feet seven inch she-devil, does not.

            As she begins to unbend her knees and rise over the glass, it happens.
            With as much ease as blinking an eye, she takes her large, thin arm and strikes. The massive ringing sounds of alarm fill my eardrums. I panic and can’t help but watch the act of violation occur in slow motion. With her entire right arm over the glass barrier, her finger points and settles mere inches away from the croissant in question to satisfy the hungry beast within. She has the audacity to make eye contact:

            “What is this one?”

            The ringing in my ears stop, I swallow my urge to run and defend the glass that so helplessly stands underneath the arm: powerless, useless. I can no longer look at it I’m filled with such disappointment. As I answer that the croissant is filled with Gruyere, sage, and sea salt, the register is ringing and I’m accepting dollar bills from the very same hands that tainted my loyal comrade, the glass. She walks away quicker than she came, and I stand there before it: no prints to wipe but just clear vast emptiness that is before me.

            “You failed.”  I tell it.
             And fantasize about smashing the Gruyere, sage, and sea salt eater’s head into it and killing two birds with one stone - so to speak. 


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