"NO!" I objected, spinning a face at the phone screen, thrusting the vacant hand, not holding the Apple device, in the air.
"No, no, no, no! She does not get to do this," I continued in an non-negotiable manner, my jaw agape in astonishment, the veins popping out of my neck.
"How dare she," I raged.
I tried to gather my thoughts, grasping for the right words inside the swirling cloud of frustration, confusion and anger in my mind. I wanted to unzip my skin and climb out of my body and into oblivion.
The woman, seated five rows in front of me, turned around and threw me the skank-eye making a point of my ill-advised subtlety. My tantrum was audible even from her end of the bus.
I had received an email from a girl I knew at school. The group she led treated me horribly for five years and, to put it simply, we were never friends. She had written to me in much the same blithe, joyous way as a child eats an orange to say she was now an advertising manager for an impressive company, running a campaign for a brand and wondered if I'd be willing to collaborate with for her on a particular project.
