This is a piece I've written in a Creative Writing Class. The assignment was "Start with this title: The Window. And write something." This is fiction.
“Hello?” I ask, as I answer the phone even though I already know who this is and what it will be in reference to. I’ve been feeling the metaphorical butterflies all day. Not the good kind of fluttering that promises a new love or an exciting prospect, though. These are moths, rather, feasting on the tissue of my stomach as the minutes on the clock tick away.
“Yes… Gello? Miess Claire?” replies a voice thick with a Russian accent.
“Speaking?” Whenever I’m nervous I talk in questions.
“Ahhh, yes… Miess Claire. Excuse me – delivery will be late!”
I have to digest that for a second before something snaps. Maybe it’s my nerves and possibly my stomach tissue, but I turn from helpless and nervous to downright bananas. It’s a switch I don’t control.
“Of course, the delivery is late!” I yell, “The delivery was already late two hours ago, when I frantically tried to reach you at this very number you’re calling me from! What’s the point of giving me a number…”, I take a deep breath, and another, as my therapist advised me to do whenever I catch myself exploding or exploded, “… you know what. This isn’t helping. When do you think you will be here then… please?” I think that sounds kind. Kinder. Catch bees with honey, is what my grandmother used to say.
“Well, Miess, issue with traffic! Hard to say! Traffic jam right now and truck is stuck on I-495! Lincoln tunnel, Miess! Katastrofa!”
It’s rush hour. It’s the freaking Lincoln tunnel… of course it’s a katastrofa! I’m close to losing my shit, but I breathe a little harder, a little deeper, thinking of all my murderous thoughts as passing clouds, like my yoga instructor suggests we do. It’s not quite working, but I’m able to keep a death threat out of my voice as I carefully form the words: “I understand it’s busy on the road, sir. I would imagine that your company is aware of traffic when planning. I waited NINE weeks for this thing. I took half a day off because you told me my delivery window was from 8am until 12pm. That is a timeframe of four hours. That’s… a lot of minutes. You’re already three hours late. That’s exceeding that window… a lot. And it is costing me my credibility at work, and another half day of vacation. I. Just. Need. That. Basil-green. Bantam. Sofa!” My voice hesitatingly balances a tremble, but I manage no to burst into frustrated tears.
“Miess Claire! Do not worry! I am on way, yes? Thirty-five minutes, GPS says. See you soon, yes?” I can’t stand the friendly Je ne sais quoi in his voice, as if we’re best friends and he just missed brunch because the F train isn’t running. All efforts to handle this gracefully falter.
“You better get that sofa here in thirty-five minutes or under, sir,” I hiss, “or there will be HELL to pay. I’m a lawyer (I’m not, I’m a paralegal) I know my rights (somewhat). The one time I splurge on a freaking piece of furniture – on sale, mind you! – and you think I’ll just sacrifice my last day of vacation? AND I’M NOT EVEN WEARING A BIKINI!? I don’t think so!”
“Miess Claire! I do not like your tone Miess Claire! I will get there, yes? No need for yelling! Bantam sofa…” abrupt silence. I try to call back but the phone goes to voicemail.
I can only hope my sofa made it into the Lincoln Tunnel.
With a desperate groan, I tap my computer to life to find my sales confirmation, and see what its terms and conditions promise when the delivery window isn’t met.