The cab drivers’ Dundonian drawl sludged into my senses:
“Her hairs a right state. And she’s no spring chicken.” He grunted. “Fuckin dyke.”
I sat up immediately, took one look at his nose hair sprouting like bedraggled roots from his bulbous nose- his piggy eyes glinting with his own humour- and cracked him one. Right in the face.
I confess. I didn’t do this at all. All I did was stew in my own anger getting more and more uptight, agitated and angry, thank him politely, paid him the appropriate money and got out of the cab. I didn’t even puncture his wheels with my claws on the way out.
This is my confession. I’m still trying to figure out why I didn’t say anything. Because the fight was already lost? I’m not sure. What I am sure of though is if I see him again I am going to have a STRICT WORD.