A sexy of bats

by Becky Hunt

A-hmm. This is my response when you launch into one of your bullhorn monologues about some book you’ve started reading. Did you know I don’t care about what books you’re reading? You certainly talk about them enough, but I remain uninterested. Oh! So you want to show-off about all the words you’ve learnt? Well, friend, you may not know it, but I have discovered the list of collective nouns at the back of my thesaurus. So lecture me about Bruges-la-Morte by Georges Rodenbach, and then I will tell you about how a bunch of swans gather together under the banner, a Lamentation of Swans. What about a Chain of Bobolinks? You know what a Bobolink is? No, neither do I. Joking! I do! It’s a type of bird. What about a Pace of Asses? Don’t take it personally. What about an Obstinancy of Buffalo? Yes, naturally I mean you. What about a Mute of Hounds? You’d do well to heed those hounds. Yes, yes, we all know about a Pride of Lions, but it’s the considered academic who will mention a Rumpus of Baboons. So you think it’s clever to give me a lecture about poetry? Why don’t we consult a Shrewdness of Apes? Let’s hear what they have to say about Aristotle’s three poetry genres: comic, tragic and epic. Don’t believe them? Too arrogant to believe the apes? Demand a retrial from a Pitying of Turtledoves.
I’ve said all this, letting it come galloping out, billowing, when I notice you are watching me nervously. I become less triumphant. You look vexed, sensing something unpleasant is happening.
‘What’s wrong?’ This is from you.
I say, ‘What?’ and it sounds aggressive. My attitude, it is clear, has descended into a Discotheque of Fatheads.
‘Has something happened?’ Obviously you are confused about why I’m so furious. You give me a weird smile, your head tilting: a Pornography of Sympathies. ‘Do you want me to buy you a coffee?’
I make the point that I can buy my own coffee if I wanted a coffee, which I don’t. Plainly I don’t! I make an inspection of your face. Emerging from a Choke-hold of Scrutinisations, I deduce that you look tired. I tell you this. I throw in that you also look old. My voice has all the affection of a Beatlemania of Butcher’s Knives.
You don’t react exceptionally well, it visibly stings you; a classic example of an Entrepreneurism of Vanities. Whilst you do this I’m thinking of how stiff-necked you are, how difficult it is to converse with you, how rude you are to your friends. I’m lost in a Rodeo of Irritations.
We trade a few more words – a stunted, awkward conversation – and you get to your feet, moody. It’s strange how you can look so wretched. I watch you walk off, and then remember that you’ve been having a hard time recently, that your girlfriend has gone. I remember that you are having a few problems at work. I remember that you told me you haven’t been feeling well. I remember that you’ve always had this personality and that you don’t mean any harm. I remember that you probably only want to tell me about your stupid books because you think I might be interested. I watch you go and feel a Monkeyhouse of Remorse.

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~ This piece was posted on Thursday, September 25th, 2008 and was filed under Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~