Something else I wrote in OAC writer's craft. I remember this was from the class where we had to write out a dialogue and then add a narrative later. This is what I came up with:

"Do you have a light?" the man asked anxiously.
"Do I have a light?" the elderly fellow glared at the man.
"Yeah," the man answered, "that's what I said."
"I might have a light somewhere," the old man waved his arm vaguely.
"Could I borrow it?" the man prodded.
"I never said I had a light," the old man denounced.
"Oh, I thought you said you did," the man fingered the cigarette in his mouth.
"Are you calling me a liar?" the old man snarled.
"No," the man stepped back.
"Do you wanna step up or something," the old man thrust his head forward, "you think you're the top dog? You think we're all gonna tap along to your ridiculous rooftop dance, Mr. Astaire?"
"No," the man replied, "I just want to light my cigarrette."
"Yeah, and how about you insult everyone while your at it," the old man countered, "yeah, that would be good."
"I'm sorry," the man apologized, "I don't really need a light that badly."
"Then why are you asking? You trying to be a pain in the ass or what?" screamed the old man in a staccato spray, "You think you can call me names and ask me for a light when you don't need one? How about you ask me for my kidney too, huh?"
"Ok, calm down man, I just wanted a light," the mad declared with a tinge of annoyance.
"Oh, so now you want a light again," the old man fumed, "freakin' psycho!"
"I don't want a light!" bellowed the man.
"Ok, Mr.-I-can't-make-my-mind-up," the old man waved a gnarled finger in the man's face, "why don't you just give up, huh? Why don't you just come to the realization of just how futile your existence is?"
"Ok, forget I asked," the man sighed, "forget I said anything."
"Yeah, I'm gonna forget how you've insulted me," the old man spat, gnashing his teeth, "why don't you just rub my face in elephant dung and tell me to forget that?"
"It's not that bad, really," the man mumbled.
"Oh yeah, and it's wasn't that bad when Elvis died and it wasn't that bad when I had five hour surgery to remove that five-pound ball of lint from my stomach," the old man's face was red with passionate anger, "yeah, there you go wise-guy, you some kind of commie fairy?"
"Yeah, ok. Whatever," the man retired, "bye."
"What, you're just gonna go?" the old man squited hatefully, "you think this is some sort of badly-dubbed foreign film that you can just walk out of?"
"Yeah, I'm obviously disturbing you," the man muttered, taking a step back.
"Oh . . . ok," the old man appeared disoriented for a moment, "so you don't want this match?"