Fried Eggs

Listening to four girls cackle at the table next to mine, faces I can't see spit nonsense at each other: some guy who didn't call and one says to just forget him 'cause he's such a dickwad, and the cackles are a piercing pain while I try to focus on this paper that's due soon (due in a few days and I cant seem to get it started 'cause there's no damn place to focus), and I throw dirty looks their way; with my eyes I say please shut the fuck up but their eyes never meet mine because girl with the long, black greasy hair has her back to me and they're all too busy spitting out cackles, but for the first time, 'cause today's not the day to deal with cackling and I've had about enough, I get up out of my seat and stand over the one with the puff of curly brown hair and finally, their eyes meet mine; lashes covered in black goup bat up at me, I stare at the top of their heads—three inch thick black roots, frizzy strawberry blonde, thin and greasy black, a whole puff of brown curls—their faces covered in thick, orange make-up that streaks around their chins, and then, do you mind not being so loud, you're SO damn loud! and I'm about to slap someone right in the mouth, don't you have any damn respect? slips outta my mouth, their eyes open wide and as I turn away to sit back at my table I hear the girls who put their make-up on in the dark spitting out cackles about how that girl with the dark and sagging bags under her eyes came over to their table and said something about being too loud.