Confrontation

I am sitting at a table, looking out of the window. A narrow street between this window and the one across it. There I can see two people sitting at a table. A sales agent and a lady. 

The lady makes large gesticulations, and from time to time the agent bows his head towards left, and his mouth moves swiftly. The lady’s blonde and long hair highlights the, I think, velvet emerald-green cap on her head. Her black sweater is full of big stars, colored in red, blue, white and yellow. In her left hand, she holds a black mobile telephone, pressing its keys from time to time, and in her right hand she has a blue ballpoint that she uses in order to write and which she sometimes menacingly points toward the agent. Their mandibles tensely move, and then they clench. The lady stands up from her chair making a hand gesture that implies the fact that everything is lost. In the background, other agents, once she moves away, lapse into smiles; and clients allow themselves to do that, too. The agent seems frozen. The lady comes out of the agency. Seeing how she lets go of the door, it seems it firmly bounces. She is outside. She puts her mobile telephone in her bag; she looks towards right, then left, and decides to go right. I see her now in all her glory. The cap matches the green bag, not as emerald as the cap, which is on her shoulder. From one of its corners, a fluffy, bellied red plush hangs. She stomps as she passes in front of the window where I used to watch her at, defying the agent. The agent leaves his desk and vanishes away. 

Curtain down.