Day Twenty-three
Extrapolate a conflict involving a box of matches.
So I was walking along Broadstreet late one snowy night this January past, and I saw the most pitiful sight of a girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. She was selling – can you believe this? – matches, or trying to. I don’t think she was having any luck. But I thought to myself, What a shame. And so I went over to do something about it. I mean, I had a few dollars in my pocket, and I figured – well, that is, I don’t want to sound horrible or anything, but I thought maybe if I helped her out she might be up for doing something that night. I’d just be left to wander the streets lonely otherwise.
But you’ll never believe it – she wouldn’t go along with anything. Wouldn’t sell me the matches, wouldn’t come around for a cup of tea (or coffee, I checked that too), wouldn’t move from her street corner. Said she couldn’t. Said it’d interfere with the story.
So as you can imagine, I was really confused. And then I was kinda angry, the kinda angry you look at afterwards and wonder, Why? but at the time you’re too caught up in it to notice. So then, right there in the street, I started yelling at her that I didn’t give a fuck for her fucking story, and why wouldn’t she sell me her goddamn matches?
But she wouldn’t give ‘em to me, so I grabbed them and tried to pull them from her, but I couldn’t get her to let go, and she kept screaming at me that if she didn’t stay people just wouldn’t get it and then everyone walking by started to look at us and sneer. So I let go of the matches, I guess kinda fell backwards because my grip slipped off, and left her there on the corner, with her story.