Bank Teller v. Barber

The Bank Teller looks down at her nails, purses her lips, then takes to filing again. She leans with her back against the oak. She looks out over the field to the fence, the smoldering ash of wood and bone, the stack of bodies, the crows.

The smell of death is still dense and thick, but less so than it was earlier, by the pile. She has cleaned her hands by the creek. She waits. And waits.

After she files her nails she pokes around the base of the tree. Seeing the trash piled a few feet away - mostly the Astronauts space food tubes - she resolves to burn these, too. She takes the tubes in her hands and makes for the pile, then gets second thoughts. Especially as the smell intensifies. Just outside the field of battle, just yards from the Banker's corpse, she drops the tubes in disgust and runs back to the oak.

The Barber arrives. His face is contorted, frowning. He holds his coat lapel to his nose.

Mfello, he says.

Hello, says the Bank Teller. Isn't that the worst smell you've ever smelled in your life?

The Barber says its not as bad as the smell of a paper mill, but close. He says this through his lapel, which muffles his voice, rendering it incomprehensible. He speaks at length this way, at times looking agreeable, at other times understanding, and at other times jocular. Each in turn. Then in combination, looking at once agreeable and understanding. Then understanding and jocular. Then jocular and agreeable. Then agreeable and jocular. Then understanding and agreeable. Then understanding and jocular. Then, in a show of particular conversationalist acumen that society allows barbers alone to display, the Barber speaks in a manner altogether agreeable, understanding and jocular.

I can't understand one damn thing ya'lls saying, baby, says the Bank Teller.

The Barber removes the lapel from his nose.

I said I think the Tigers might just win the pennant this year, he says. Then, overcome by the full odor of the half-burned remains, turns and vomits on the trunk of the oak.

They chose their pistols and take their places on the field, ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.