Incident report, 2/22/12: Cell phone domestic

This happens a lot more than I like to admit; I couldn't find the book I'm teaching on Friday.  I drove to my office, couldn't find it there.  I drove to Revolution Books to pick up a fresh copy, but I arrived before they opened.  So I sat in my car, drinking Kokua Market's best ginger ale.  Through the windshield I spotted a smiley face on one of the cactus leaves, the one attached to two outstretched arms.  Cactus angel.  An employee from the restaurant approached the recycle bin pushing a white metal cart; dozens of bottles rattled and clanked.  He poured them in the container, walked away.  On the curb beside the orange dumpster (Roll-Offs, it read) a young woman sat, left arm tattooed from top to bottom.  She held a cell phone to her right ear.  YOU MISUNDERSTAND, she yelled.  Shorter words ensued.  One half of a domestic.  She held her left palm up to her face as if to read it, or like a threat to no one but herself.  I got out of my car, climbed the stairs, got my book.  On my way out, she still crouched there, smoking a cigarette, clutching the phone.  The air a bit quieter.  She was wearing brown boots.