by John Leavitt
He called her a yappy cunt. He stood right in front of her in a long lineup at Starbucks and okay Tania was loud talking on her phone to Estelle and Estelle had forwarded Tania a pic of Marnie Hansen in a sequined mini dress, like seriously her hair all over the place, coming out of some downtown hotel at seven in the morning, like OMG how cliché Tania said and rolled her eyes and that’s when it happened. Clint Eastwood’s twin, the big doofus in front of her, the turd of the month, turned around and blurted it right into her face.
“Jesus, you’re a yappy cunt,” he said.
Tania was speechless. At least for a second. It was like someone poked her mute button and wow the few tables closest to her went super quiet. It was a big Starbucks even though none of them really are and the two British tourists in town for a week, a cute couple, both of them sitting on the same side of their table, these two seniors from Birmingham on their very first vacation abroad, well, they shut down. They had bacon and egg sandwiches well on their way into their fiercely opened jaws when they froze with their hands in mid-air. The three teenage girls with stick-on face tattoos eating cranberry scones at the standup rail actually stopped stuffing their faces and stared with their crumb-filled mouths half open. At her. With a sort of “what the hell are you going to do now” look of surprise and expectation and glee on their faces. Their silly lives were a nonstop reality show anyway but the young girls heard him say it and Tania made a mental note. She was going to get their contacts in case she pressed charges against this big goof and she might. You can’t call someone a yappy cunt and then order your latte with an extra shot, tip the cashier a quarter for heaven’s sakes and waltz out of Starbucks. No f’ing way.
John Leavitt lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. He writes short stories about the oddity of human relations. He still remembers where he was the day Kurt Cobain died and he was one of the first people to actually acquire a bit of bitcoin. Long since sold. Mr. Leavitt loves irony even if he isn’t always sure exactly what it is.