My Confession

It was a cold September morning when I slunk into the shiny cab and thunked the door shut. Fuelled by three cups of gritty instant and with smudges under my eyes I slid against the window. The scarlet traffic light winked at me. A woman was walking across the road in front of us. Her hair was a beacon, her head a matchstick. It pulsed in my eyeballs, vivid and unrelenting.

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.