‘There’s four quid there. I promise you that. It’s not all two p’s.’
‘Nah, there’s one p’s too.’
I left the shop clutching milk, hummus and bread, paid for with scratty coppers found in a drawer. I walked home from the shop, gliding through the myriad schoolchildren. I always went to the shop at kicking out time. It was weird.
Still. A life on the dole isn’t an early morning kind of affair. Or it never used to be. The hoops these days.
I felt bleak and sexless and had a desire for an older woman. A bored, curvy neighbour. (I had nowt to do but read Bukowski).
As I turned onto my street, walking on the opposite side of the road to my usual route (you have to get your kicks how you can when you’re broke) I saw a curvy, middle-aged, melancholic-looking woman smoking by her front door. I liked melancholic-looking women. They looked intelligent, as though they’d come to understand a thing or two about life. She lingered a look at me and turned to go in. As she did she flicked her cigarette, gave me a final look, and walked into the house, leaving the door open. Fantasy was all about context.
Of course I approached.
I had just set my foot in the door when a burly, hairy-armed man appeared. His vibe was more angry than melancholy.
‘Er. I live across the road. I think you have a parcel for me.’
The melancholic-looking woman walked up the stairs, giving me no further look. The hairy man came back. There was no parcel.