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Not now, you bastard. Of all the times he could have picked to drop by. Not after you’ve just done that.


Its been a long day, you’re too hot, your cheap, Matalan-bought jumper has left motes of cheap, black fibre over your otherwise perfectly white polo shirt. Fucking Matalan. Your armpits are sodden, your breath smells rank. Not now, you bastard. He knows though, you’re engaging him in conversation but he knows. His eyes flicker hate he quickly regulates and as a knee-jerk he jumps back. You bastard, he must think. To do that on top of all the other smells. On top of the stupidity of your request. Not long after he has gone the smell passes. You put your jumper back on and hang your head.

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