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Happiness comes to those who bake cherry pies!" She says, and giggles a lil manically.
Great. A two-hour bus trip stuck next to some crazy chick who don't realize that plastic hats wit' glued-on flowers ain't the style anymore. And ain't been tha style for 'bout a hundred years. Even if she is pretty, in a light-skinned, Beyonce-on-drugs sorta way, he wishes she would back up a lil onto her own seat. Her perfume is giving him a headache, no lie.
"Honey," he says, sarcastic, "I know I'm fine, but you don't gotta crawl onto my lap. Give a brotha some room to breathe, okay?"
"Honey," she comes back right away. "Don't flatta' yourself. I ain't crawling onto you. I'm crawling for that window you next to. This perfume's gone kill me."
He looks her in the eye. "Yeah, why'd you roll in it? Ain't you heard of misting?"
"Ain't you heard of tact?"
He shrugs. "No, what's that? Serious, though; you take a bath in that stuff? It'll give me allergies."
"Perfume don't give you allergies, darlin'," she sings. "Read a book!"
An' bake a cherry pie, he thinks. "Maybe not, but it sure can put a brotha in a God-awful mood."
"Not you, sugar!" Bright smile, perfect sincere sarcasm. "You a freakin' Dr. Sunshine!"
"You got a mouth."
He's thinking 'bout moving. He's never ridden a bus before, though; he's got no idea if that'd be okay or not. This chick would prob'ly strip buck-naked and do a victory dance if he got kicked off or somethin'.
So he just scowls at her.
"You ever baked a cherry pie?" she asks, relaxing into her crazy-mode again. She's actually smilin', like she doesn't realize that whacks are taking over the friggin' country, and she's one of them. "It's like a metaphor fo' life, darling."
"What the hell you talking 'bout?" He barks at her.
"It's like a metaphor. The crust like-"
"Scratch that. I don't care what you talking 'bout. Please save it." He leans away from her.
"Wanna trade seats?"
"No, I don't wanna trade seats! Keep your flowers outta my hair!"
"This perfume," she explains. "My sister made me put it on. Actually, she put it on me. It's giving me a headache."
He hates her sister.
She smiles benignly.
"Honey," he says. "If I move, you ain't got an excuse to keep talking to me."
"Here," he says, giving in, 'cause after all, it's a chick, and you got to be nice to 'em even when they're nuts. Gentlemanly, he moves her bag to the window seat, and stands up to let her take his spot.
"God'll reward you," she says brightly.