Betty

(This is Betty Braithwaite,
writing her first
interview piece.)
Her taloned fingers grip the acid green quill,
and her smile that shows every molar
does not reach her eyes,

but I hold my tongue, swallow
an ocean of words that threaten to spill,
and politely smile back
(the plight that faces every journalist).
Somewhere in my mind,
warning signals sound, but
I just take a proffered seat,
taste the slice of pound cake
(for the sake of manners),
and gingerly sip my tea.

She has no restraints—
at least, it seems that way,
the stream of words coming forth,
never hesitating—
and her gossip is never ending.
Pride and malice clearly shine
in her eyes, almost masking
those blonde curls from sight.

I nod along, my own quill
writing hastily, but
the pit of uneasiness grows

as her tone of adoration
over her own superiority
grossly expands, and her manicured nails
grow by the second, to the point of claws
that could lash out at any second.
She interjects with a laugh far from
warm and friendly, rather like a crocodile
ready to perform his death roll.

Yet I ask questions, take notes,
allow my patience to wear thin until
I am sure that it could tear with
a gentle touch, like wet paper.
I gag down the tea
(always smiling),
do my best to swallow
the dry cake
(all the while wondering
why I am not on a diet).

It never ends!
She tries to be mysterious, says
she cannot reveal every detail,
yet somehow her words do not flail,
and now two, three, four cups of tea
have passed

and I feel drowsy,
hoping that my paycheck is enough
to make up for this horrible job,
but even now, it doesn’t
feel like it’s worth it.
Perhaps I can look
on the wanted page
of my own Daily Prophet.

(This is Betty Braithwaite,
writing her last
interview piece.)