Huffer

“Taxi,” I yelled, “taxi,” racing across the street and grazing the bumper of a delivery van that veered and stopped short, the driver cursing me with proletarian gusto. I reached the door about half an arm’s length ahead of a grey-haired gentleman who huffed, “It’s mine, it’s mine,” and I dropped into the vinyl-covered seat, twirled the handle that lifted a safety-glass barrier between me and the huffer, […]

“I don’t want paperback.” / Of course she didn’t. “Well, you can borrow an electronic version. The library—” / “Eh, that’s not reading.” She huffed again. She was a major huffer. “Kids today, reading on their phones. That’s not real reading.”

Moving back out into the other room, I opened the other door, looking forward to seeing what Seamus’s room was going to be like. Unfortunately, that door opened up into a huge dressing room and nothing else. My heartbeat sped up and I turned to Seamus, who was biting his lip, trying not to laugh. I huffed louder than I’d ever done in my life. And that was hard because I was a good huffer! ‘It’s like the scene from a romcom movie. There’s only one bed.’

To be expos'd in th'end to ſuffer / By ſuch a Braggadochio Huffer.