Amy is telling me all about the magazine she's interning on, and because she's cute, and I really like her, I'm trying to pay attention.
"...it's amazing the kinds of things they're reporting on, stuff the mainstream just won't touch," she says. I raise my eyebrows and nod. I should be asking something. A follow-up, to illustrate I'm engaged.
But her handbag is dripping, and has been since we sat down. So I'm distracted.
"pligk," comes a sound from just below her bag.
It's a thick kind of drip, like a sea sponge overladen with phlegm.
"pligk," I think I hear again, but try to ignore it.
"When it goes to press, it's like a giant process machine turns on, interleaving media without..." she says, but...
"pligk," a drop interrupts.
It's seriously distracting.
She's hung her purse on the armrest of the chair she's sitting in, leaving about four inches from the bottom of the bag to the floor. Just far enough for the drops of whatever is seeping through the seams of her bag to make a barely-audible noise when they hit the floor.
"...and so when I told Gordon, that's the 'Humour' editor - it's so great, they use the British spelling 'cause they mean it in that old Greek way, like feelings and bile, not, like, actual funny stuff...but so when I told Gordon..." she goes on.
"Pligk," says the drop of whatever-it-is crashing to the floor.
Normally, I'd be leaning forward, politely rapt, trying to show I'm interested in her and her story, but when I do that, the bottom of the bag creeps into my field of vision, and the little off-white pool forming beneath it kind of grosses me out.
It's probably just water, I tell myself. She set the bag down outside, and it got damp, and...
"Pligk," rings the bell of another free drop.
I swear I can feel the drops hitting the floor through my feet. I shift my position, trying to get as little of my feet touch the floor as possible.
"...I've got like four more weeks, but like I said, Sarah is leaving next month, so I'm really sure that..." she goes on, and I'm suddenly struck with the unreasonable fear that I'm going to be tested on what she's been saying.
"Plish," comes the sound, and the change makes me twitch. I try to cover by faking a stretch, but she stops abruptly.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I realize suddenly I've leaned forward, and I can see the little pool underneath the bag. I stare. There's some kind of dead bug in it now. A beetle maybe. A moist shell on its back.
Almost in slow motion, I watch another drop form on the bottom of the bag, break loose, and splash onto the beetle. It twitches violently with the impact, and suddenly, Amy's head is in front of mine.
"What is your issue today?" she asks, annoyed.
She's about ready to walk out, I think.
My eyes drift to hers.
"What's in the bag?" I ask.
"What?" she says.
"What's in your purse?" I ask. "What's in there? What's wet in there?"
Her eyes turn confused, then irritated, and she leans back, letting out an exasperated noise.
For some reason, I still think she might answer me, and I wait, staring at her.
Abruptly, she grabs her purse and stands. I hear a crunch, and I know she's put her foot in the puddle and smashed the bug.
"Please don't call me again," she says, and I look down at her foot.
She walks away, the tread of her shoe pulling up the damp remains of the beetle. I watch her feet as she leaves, leaving pieces of bug behind with every step.
I look back to the wet smear of handbag secretion on the floor.
Just leave it alone, I think, even as I crouch down next to it.
But I have to know.
I lick my lips.
I have to know.
"...it's amazing the kinds of things they're reporting on, stuff the mainstream just won't touch," she says. I raise my eyebrows and nod. I should be asking something. A follow-up, to illustrate I'm engaged.
But her handbag is dripping, and has been since we sat down. So I'm distracted.
"pligk," comes a sound from just below her bag.
It's a thick kind of drip, like a sea sponge overladen with phlegm.
"pligk," I think I hear again, but try to ignore it.
"When it goes to press, it's like a giant process machine turns on, interleaving media without..." she says, but...
"pligk," a drop interrupts.
It's seriously distracting.
She's hung her purse on the armrest of the chair she's sitting in, leaving about four inches from the bottom of the bag to the floor. Just far enough for the drops of whatever is seeping through the seams of her bag to make a barely-audible noise when they hit the floor.
"...and so when I told Gordon, that's the 'Humour' editor - it's so great, they use the British spelling 'cause they mean it in that old Greek way, like feelings and bile, not, like, actual funny stuff...but so when I told Gordon..." she goes on.
"Pligk," says the drop of whatever-it-is crashing to the floor.
Normally, I'd be leaning forward, politely rapt, trying to show I'm interested in her and her story, but when I do that, the bottom of the bag creeps into my field of vision, and the little off-white pool forming beneath it kind of grosses me out.
It's probably just water, I tell myself. She set the bag down outside, and it got damp, and...
"Pligk," rings the bell of another free drop.
I swear I can feel the drops hitting the floor through my feet. I shift my position, trying to get as little of my feet touch the floor as possible.
"...I've got like four more weeks, but like I said, Sarah is leaving next month, so I'm really sure that..." she goes on, and I'm suddenly struck with the unreasonable fear that I'm going to be tested on what she's been saying.
"Plish," comes the sound, and the change makes me twitch. I try to cover by faking a stretch, but she stops abruptly.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
I realize suddenly I've leaned forward, and I can see the little pool underneath the bag. I stare. There's some kind of dead bug in it now. A beetle maybe. A moist shell on its back.
Almost in slow motion, I watch another drop form on the bottom of the bag, break loose, and splash onto the beetle. It twitches violently with the impact, and suddenly, Amy's head is in front of mine.
"What is your issue today?" she asks, annoyed.
She's about ready to walk out, I think.
My eyes drift to hers.
"What's in the bag?" I ask.
"What?" she says.
"What's in your purse?" I ask. "What's in there? What's wet in there?"
Her eyes turn confused, then irritated, and she leans back, letting out an exasperated noise.
For some reason, I still think she might answer me, and I wait, staring at her.
Abruptly, she grabs her purse and stands. I hear a crunch, and I know she's put her foot in the puddle and smashed the bug.
"Please don't call me again," she says, and I look down at her foot.
She walks away, the tread of her shoe pulling up the damp remains of the beetle. I watch her feet as she leaves, leaving pieces of bug behind with every step.
I look back to the wet smear of handbag secretion on the floor.
Just leave it alone, I think, even as I crouch down next to it.
But I have to know.
I lick my lips.
I have to know.
Genius. Sheer genius.
Posted by: flyyhigh | April 15, 2008 at 08:40 PM
what was it!!!!!!!!! that's cruel...
Posted by: shayna | April 16, 2008 at 01:08 PM
It was ALMOST normal (or at least not completely disturbing) until the last three lines. Wow.
Posted by: Q | April 17, 2008 at 08:02 AM