This past Sunday, I was sitting comfortably reading Kafka on the Shore in my spot at a coffee ship when I was interrupted by a realtor I know. We spoke of this and that, but mainly of that since he did most of the talking and I didn’t have much this to offer.

In character, once I was thoroughly interrupted, he excused himself to go interrupt someone else. It’s his way. I used to find his interruptions mildly annoying but I have found the interruptions mildly amusing and every now and then, he lets slip something interesting. I don’t know how that helps him sell real estate, but it is something that I have noticed some salespeople do. Extroversion? Maybe, but I never let him draw too much energy from me.

I was just getting back into my book when a silhouette passed me. It clacked past to a chair only one away from mine, where some woman was perusing something on her phone, despite the glare of the sunlight beating through the window.

I heard the purse land emphatically on the table, followed by some rustling – a common thing with women as they dig into their secret hideaways that allows them to do whatever they want wherever they want. Designers long ago decided women didn’t need pockets because they had purses, or vice versa. Men carry their lives in their pockets, women in their purses. I flipped this around in my mind, idly considering which came first, the purse or lack of pockets, when I started hearing spraying.

This was not the single ‘ffft‘ of a dash of perfume. It was the ‘ffft-ffft-ffft-ffft‘ of someone on a mission. Curious, I glanced over to see the woman, dressed all in black perhaps in an effort to slim herself, busily spraying her chair, the table, and everything else. She had the brightest red shade of lipstick I had seen in some time, perhaps the contrast with her clothing.

There was nothing crazy looking about her. She looked fairly ordinary. I might even consider her attractive, were it not for her invasive fffting. She was fffting up a storm over there, but her deep brown eyes were locked on her task. I knew by looking at her that there was not a square nanometer she intended to miss, and I thought to say that she might as well get a napkin and pour the contents of the bottle onto the chair and rub it in.

It didn’t make sense to me, which drew me in to her world of FFFt. She was not wearing a mask, as a germophobe would. She didn’t look crazy as she fffted. But she noticed I had noticed and she steadfastly did not look over at me, though my neck was now at almost at a right angle observing her. She was determined to not look crazy, maybe.

Finally, her task done, a small sigh escaped her lips and she went to the bathroom.

She had left her handiwork unattended, so anyone could sneeze, cough, fart or otherwise contaminate her sterile area. The air conditioning had begun to waft the scent of her fffts and it wasn’t the annoying smell of alcohol that came to my nose. Instead, it smelled a bit like plums. It was surprisingly pleasant, though not something one would rush out to buy for anyone you cared about.

I thought to leave a note on her chair that someone had coughed nearby, but that would have required me getting up from my comfortable chair. My practical joke was ruined by my laziness and maybe the thought that she might have gone crazy had I done that.

When you create a sterile field, you don’t leave it unattended. And if you’re that germophobic, you would be wearing a mask. Either she was amazingly uneducated for a germophobe, or she wasn’t a germophobe and thought to give everyone a show.

She clacked back from the restroom, perhaps having cleaned it as well while she was there.

This woman made no sense to me, in that I could not come up with a story as to why she had fumigated everything.

The realtor was back, and so I interrupted him as I was about to leave. He glanced up from his phone as my knee popped, giving him a little salute as I was prepping to leave.

“You’re leaving?”, he asked.

“Yup”, I said, and not loud enough to carry, “Next time I see you, could you let me know if she sprays everything when she leaves?”

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

He smiled and shrugged, “Sure.”

It has come to me that maybe the chair was dirty when other people sat on it, but maybe she didn’t think it was dirty when she did. Or maybe it was about not getting anything on her black outfit.

Or maybe she just wanted me to write about her.

fft-fffft-fffffft.