The Man Who Got his Fix

“How can I help you?…”, he says, clears his throat, and adds, with a pause long enough to communicate the completely obligatory nature of the designation, and his reluctance to waste it on me, but also short enough to signify its belonging to the first set of inquiring words, “…sir?”
“I can fathom no way, not one, either in the great heavens above, or in the deepest reaches of hell, not to mention, most certainly not in any measure of this mortal world, that you, my inconsequentially dear unknown person, can help me.” I growl with a pause long enough to convey that I had given due consideration to his question.
“In that case…”, clears throat,”…sir, I’ll have to ask you to leave.” he announces, unimpressed like the cash machine from earlier tonight.
“I understand. Why don’t you go ahead and ask me?”
“Please leave…”, clears throat, “…sir”
I nod. His throat clearing is the best conversation I’ve had in a long time. “A pleasure talking to you…ahem…sir”, I mumble pulling my pants up and buttoning my shirt. I’d been hoping to get my butt kicked. I leave though, satisfied with… whatever… I got my fix…