Glory Be

Anger doesn't make any sense anyways. It's useless to frustrate. He had heard a Buddhist monk say, "to hold on to anger is like holding a hot stone with the intent to throw it at someone; you are the one who ultimately burns." Burn. Good word. It captures both the furiousness of the emotion while figuratively representing destruction. But God Dammit! Why does everything conspire against him? He cannot remember a time when the man wasn't on his back.
Is time continually speeding up, or is it our perception? His life is a blurry mix of smells, occasions, colors and cacophony. He reflects on it as if it was a time lapsed video capturing the breadth of human experience. Right now the smell is heinous, the occasion sour, the color dull and the sound droning. The walls of boredom cast dark shadows as they cage in his freedom.
Working minimum wage like a rat in a cage. Massachusetts i love you but you're bringing me down... i gotta get myself out of here.
His anger isn't the quick hot anger common to quick-wits like him, but instead it's a simmering Crock Pot of meaty anger. Why should he, who was promise everything, be stuck in the doldrums of life's shit stew? He doesn't even know why his anger is simmering today. His bus pulls to the side of the road at his stop, Crotchet Boulevard. Above the unintelligible mumble of the bus' motley members, the diesel engine could be heard winding down, the breaks squeaking expectedly, the folding doors creak open. His eyes avert while he makes his way to the bus' front, fearing the checkmate stare of a stranger wanting to talk, and he steps off the bus into the world with his head hunched down.
A sweet, thin tendril of rose scent eddies in his nostrils and lightens his calloused mood. The whole world would be better if it smelled like roses.
Tending her garden, Jess' silky brunette locks dab the sweat gathered on her forehead. His mood further elevates as he sees her ignobly short jean shorts press gently into the girth of her muscular but distinctly feminine legs. He would love to take her behind the bushes and have her take his frustrations. She looks up at him, past his physical self and into his desires. Their eyes made a premature decision to remain engaged.
He takes his first step into her yard. The crisp suburban grass flexes underneath the weight of his modest All-Stars. The silky sight of her burns and he walks almost frantically toward her. He sees her lemonade on the stairs to her deck. The trees, the mood, the eyes, Jess. His blurry gray day spikes with a glaring red aura. His holy place is here, now. He knows about her son, her husband. But he sees in her wide eyes that they were meant to be together here, now. Running, his flesh meets her extended arms. Glory be, his arms about encircle Jess!
Destiny swoops down from above to have her say in the moment. The color changes, now a brilliant white light. He falls to his knees, overcome with the moment's climax. It burns delectably with justice.
Passionate screams echoed through neighborhood. All hell broke loose. Jess's husband called the police, took their son inside. Sirens come. It had all been a blur, but moments ago some maniac had come wildly at his wife. Now his grotesque shape lies prostate on their front yard, her trowel sunk into his gut.