Joe sipped at his steaming cup of tea, it really was good. Mrs. Woo sat across the tiny marble table studying him in silence. The only sound was the sip of tea from both of them and hollow tick tock of the garish grandfather clock looming over Mrs. Woo’s shoulder. It clicked past five. Joe thought of his boss drumming his fingers over his desk, checking his wrist watch every minute, his face turning red then purple before erupting in a swearing fit and leaving a message on his worthless employee’s answering machine to leave the truck at the warehouse and never return.
“Joe not going to be so stoo-pid soon.” She said matter-of-factly.
Joe, finally irritated by Mrs. Woo’s all-knowing cat and mouse game, snapped at her, “How do you know I want to be a writer?”
“See,” she said confidently before sipping tea, “You already changing.”
He stifled his outrage and sulked against the back of his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for Mrs. Woo to unveil her secrets.
She dug between her breasts, produced a cigarette, lit it and leaned back in her chair beneath a cloud of smoke. She placed a hand in the crook of her smoking arm and tapped a cylinder of ash onto the marble table top, her tiny eyes burrowed into Joes.
“I like these game, stoo-pid Joe. When you leave here you not going to be so stoo-pid no more. You feel like life has nothing for you. Like you just walk around and say, “Ah screw it.” huh?”
Joe waited and stared.
“You never get woman. Been long time now. Must be hard sitting cross from these.” She punctuated her sentence by motioning to herself with a wave of her cigarette.
“You want better. Want excitement. No, Joe?”
Joe sat and pondeossred whether he should respond to any of this, if he should just walk out and apologize to his b, or throw his tea in this crazy ladies face.
“But you think you not deserve it.”
“Yes.” He finally admitted.
“See, Joe, not so hard to listen to Mrs. Woo. You like Mrs. Woo and Mrs. Woo like you. That why I give you dis.”
She set to digging between her breasts again, this time for much longer, her breasts jiggling more erratically than before, her face twisted in concentration. Her tiny tongue flicked out, locked into the corner of her mouth, one eye squinting as she continued searching between her breasts. “Ah!” She shouted, her hand stopping and feeling something. But then she shook her head and dug deeper, her face fixed into an expression of consternation.
Joe was dismayed, completely overwhelmed and confounded by this old woman. What was going on? Is she looking for another cigarette?
Then she smiled, stopped her digging and slowly withdrew her hand from the front of her dress, an object in her clutches. She extended her hand to Joe, palm up across the table, the object seated neatly upon it.
It was a child’s block. One of those with alphabet letters on it for stacking. This was the W block. On the top was a strange figure he recognized but couldn’t quite place the symbol.
He looked into her eyes and she encouraged him to take it with a lift of her sparse eyebrows. He plucked the item out of her hand with his thumb and forefinger and held it up before his eyes. The only discernible symbol was the W. It was oddly beautiful to him and he meant it when he said, “Thank you.”
She sighed when she sat back in her chair and lit a fresh cigarette. She seemed exhausted.
“Oh yeah,” she said, her hand shooting down her dress and out again. Joe noticed a flash from one of the stationary boxes out of the corner of his eye. “Here,” she said and handed him a familiar card. “Invitation to my wedding. Now go home, I see you next week.”
Joe eased up and looked at her uncertainly.
She chuckled and blew smoke into his face, shooing him away with her cigarette, “Next week.”
YOU ARE READING
The Writer's Block
HumorWhen boring Joe Smith decides he wants to be a writer his fate is dramatically altered and all sorts of crazy stuff happens. There's an asian old lady in it. She's magic. And... and... it's funny?
