***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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