This Is What Hell Sounds Like

It's unlike anything David's ever heard, this incessant squawking, like a frantic parrot on acid with wings on fire. She will not shut up- nattering on and on and on and on. What language is that, anyway? Some kind of chinese or maybe filipino. It could be german with a twist for all he knows. Whatever it is, he doesn't get it it but he's thinking that if she doesn't shut up by the time he gets off the bus he'll be fluent, whether he likes it or not. What the hell is she even talking about? David can't figure out if she's pissed off or being polite. Not a great language selling point, if you ask him. Pretty confounding to feel like someone's tearing you a new one when they're actually professing their love. She's still talking. Wow. What is that, circular breathing? Maybe she plays the didjeridoo. A chinese didj player. On a downtown Toronto bus. Makes sense. Or hey, she could be  a free diver- they have great lung capacity, right? At this point David's riffing so as to not reach over and rip the headphone out of her ear and throw her phone out the window. Probably not a good idea. The ride home gets weirder every day. Granted his neighbourhood is what you'd call complicated, but what is up with the crazies lately. Every day it's a parade of lost Avengers, wanna be superheroes tweaking on bad candy and angry at the state of their situation and there's something about David that invites conversation. He tries to ignore them but it's like a bad smell that lingers all over after you close the door behind you. Oh my god she is still talking. Forget it. David pulls the cord, signals the bus to pull over at  the next stop. All he keeps thinking is man, I really need a car.

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