Writing Prompt No. 120
There’s a man, an angry man, older, not from here.
He hates it when they park here, park at the back of the shop. Sometimes they do sit longer than they should, waiting for their children, blocking the spaces for customers. Most of the time they try to be quick. Five minutes max. That’s what’s been asked of them.
A woman, a mother finds anger deep within her, when he knocks at the window of her car. She ignores him at first but his voice becomes louder more persistent. She opens the door wide, gets out screaming and pointing at the old man. She tells him no one likes him. She tells him people like his wife but not him. That he’s a bitter, angry old man.
He doesn’t listen. He continues shouting. He says he will call the police. He does. He dials emergency services and tells his tale of the shouting woman who won’t leave his car-park. As he speaks into his phone, the woman is still shouting:
The car-park isn’t his. It isn’t private. Anyone can park here.
He turns away holding his phone to his ear, asking for help. The anger between them is so sharp and electric it crackles through the atmosphere.
All this I witness while waiting, waiting for my child, waiting and watching the storm raging between an angry woman and an angry man.
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