littering with intent

I catch up with the lady in the yellow sundress as she reaches the other side of the road, and tap her on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," I wheeze, red-faced and breathless. It's been a while since I've crept above walking pace. She wheels on a Louboutin heel to face me, startled.

I double over and catch my breath for a few seconds, gasping at the tarmac, occasionally raising a finger to buy a little more time. She waits impatiently, tapping her watch.

"You dropped this," I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out her Substack.

She looks puzzled. "Yes," she responds, "I was meant to. It's what we do around here."

My expression hardens. "It's littering, is what it is."

She opens her mouth to speak, but I interrupt.

"If you do it again," I say sternly, "I'll be forced to report you," and before she has the chance to respond I walk away.