You watch her from afar, on the other side of the island. If she went any further there would be drool hanging from her open maw. She cackles -a laugh that could shatter glass- her head bobbing like a bouyant turd. You grimace. Further banality ensues. How to react? What can you say? You can’t force it, you can’t…
You are unable to adjust accordingly as your face rejects her, you feel your mouth forming a scowl. Traitor, you think to your mouth. Her beady badger-eyes clock you like a hungry pack animal and then stray. Your heart races and gently slows. You are not useful if you cannot comply and that is why you are on this side, in your corner as if -your mouth opening and closing like a fish desperate for air- this single pocket of normality can save you from her and the popular grotesques, chewing on horrendous dietary greens like bloated aphids, discussing their runs and cycles and normal everyday things. One day you will be free of this. One day you will be a popular grotesque like all the other popular grotesques and then you will be free.
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.
You’re a kite dancing in a hurricane Mr. Bond.
You’re an obese eel squirming through a collapsing u-bend Mr. Bond.
You’re a stranded tourist in a war-torn version of Bognor Regis who thinks he’s in Disneyland, Mr. Bond.
You’re Brad Pitt’s stunt-double on stage with Brad Pitt at the Oscars, Mr. Bond.
You’re a two-bit hooker at an annual convention for high-class escorts, Mr. Bond.
You’re a camp kitten frollocking in a circle of bloodhounds, Mr. Bond.
You’re a worn down stub of a Crayola in a suitcase full of exquisite antique fountain pens, Mr. Bond.
You’re a flabby chested football hooligan in an Eggheads final, Mr. Bond.