‘Excuse me,’ the woman in the blood-red-cotton-
jersey-synthetic mess of a unioned-uniform shirt
stopped. The package, her hand.
The distance of none.
‘Were you always a cunt, or did you just turn
into one when the menopause hit?’
Package snatched back. From hers to hers.
A smile, a wave, a twirl.
Exit left, worker stayed right
there.
Customer served the smile.
What service.
On the Road to Reason 