'Fuming' by J. F. King

Argumentative is the adjective people attach to me. I disagree.

Perhaps I do focus on particulars but I’m too old to back down. 

My latest is drivers keeping their engine running when parked. 

No exceptions.

‘Switch your engine off. Sir.’ I ordered the driver.

The driver pretended not to hear. 

This was beginning to get to me— 

‘And you can’t cross here.’

A figure emerged from the vehicle and shouted at me. ‘Why not?’

‘This is a peace bridge.’

‘This is a tank.’

Being told the obvious, that’s another trigger—

‘Switch your engine off when stationary. Switch it on to move back.’

The tank began to advance. Admittedly that addressed the first point, but not the second.

I remained unmoved. I become angry when I must repeat myself but I couldn’t see another way forward. 

‘You can’t cross here. We call this The Peace Bridge.’

The tank would have to go back.

The only alternative would be to rename the bridge. 

Above the roar I could discern voices – ‘what is happening?’ ‘Frida has started an argument… with a tank,’ ‘Alert the mayor, Frida will be crushed, you know what she is like…’

The tank was centimetres from me, it bounced to a stop, engine fuming.

We were no longer quadrilinear but two sided, the way we were before the mediators facilitated the mayor’s construction of the bridge. 

Half the crowd were now behind me on this side of the bridge, half behind the tank on the other side. A reversion.

The mayor edged forward, the town flag above her head. She was so proud of that flag she designed, the bridge motif flanked with pine trees. 

I met the tank driver’s eyes through that slot in front of their vehicle. 

He looked scared.