Pet Peeves

The two men stood talking, one of them casually leaning against the door frame. His right hand was in his pocket, elbow akimbo; his left hand held coffee in a generic cup, both the stylized cardboard label and the genuine article steaming away. Both men laughed - no, guffawed - and I heard a fragment of dialogue, "...I don't know what they think they're doing..."

Inside the dark corners of my mind, nails began a slow, inexorable trip down a moss green chalkboard. A shiver shot up my spine. I took my keys out of my jacket pocket, making sure they didn't jingle. I reversed my grip on them, so that the big one - the car key - was protruding from the bottom of my fist like a stiff, silver tail.

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