‘Get the fuck out my space dickface!’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “Get out of my space”,’
‘No you didn’t. You said, “Get out of my space dickface!”’ He explained, leaning out the window. ‘That’s not even a word.’
‘That’s your problem here? The validity of my swearing?’
‘Absolutely. If I’m going to be insulted, I’d prefer it to be a real insult. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense does it?’
‘For God’s sake. Forget it. Move out my space.’
She released the handbrake and inched forward.
‘You what? Your space? You own this?’
‘Yes. My indicator was clearly on.’
‘Oh, terribly sorry then, that’s legally binding your majesty.’
His 4x4 stayed put.
‘Get out of my space then!’
‘I’m never going to move now.’ He killed the engine. ‘Ever.’
‘You’ll have to sometime.’
‘Nope. Never. This space looks good for living in. Close to the shop, normally a pleasant view.’
‘Oh, no, no. You can’t change your insult now. You made your choice. You can’t escalate to dickhead now just because you didn’t get the required result with dickface.’
‘Are you actually kidding me?’
‘Now now. I think you should persevere with dickface. Obviously it didn’t work with me, but it might on the next unsuspecting member of the public you hurl insults at for no reason.’
‘I had an exceptionally good reason. You’re in my space. And you knew it. You saw my indicator. And it’s a parent and child space.’
‘I might have a child in the back.’
‘No, but I might pick one up in the child aisle. I think they’re just past the long-life milk.’
‘Do you have a child in the back then?’
‘Soon I will. When I pick him up from school.’
‘Move out of my space! I won’t move until you move!’ She threatened.
‘That makes no sense. I’m in the space. I can’t physically move until you move. You’re blocking me. Even if your Micra is basically a tin can.’
‘Leave Mitzy out of it. She’s a good old girl.’
‘She may be “old”, but I’m not sure about the “good”. If I wanted, I could ram you out the way with this.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘I wouldn’t want to. It’d cost more to repair my bumper than your whole damn car.’
‘Well, I’m not moving.’ She switched off the engine.
‘Neither am I.’ He pulled the newspaper off the dashboard and started perusing the classifieds.
‘Well neither am I.’ Her knuckles whitened at ten and two on the steering wheel.
They sat. They seethed.
Cars came and went around them. The trolley train passed four times.
The store manager came out to reason.
Their partners came to point out their flaws.
The police came with negotiators.
They rolled up their windows but still they sat. Seething.
Everything else faded into the background. Until they were the only two people left, living angrily ever after.
Katie Isham (she / her) is a writer, teacher, drummer, cake connoisseur and mild adventurer. Her words can be found in The Cabinet of Heed, The Daily Drunk, Dwelling Literary and Funny Pearls. She also writes a travel blog that seems somewhat archaic in the present climate. Twitter @k_isham