By Jennie E. Owen
Tonight’s the night as they say, and I’m just trying
to, you know, to build up to it. I’m sat in my Fiesta outside the Asda, it’s
about 9.45pm and they’ll be shutting soon, and I’m drumming my fingers on the
steering wheel. I’m going to do it; I’m going to get her.
It’s dark where I’m parked, far away from the lights and
more importantly the security cameras. The green sign of the store is reflected
in a hundred puddles. Half a dozen youths with hoods over their faces are
hanging around the cash machine and the odd late night shopper passes out of
the doors with a low swoosh. Not her though, I’ll have to go in and get her.
Believe me I’m not a bad person. I hold down a job, have
kids. Had kids. They’re with their mum now, but I send money when I can. I’ve
even got my own little flat. I’m a productive member of society me; I do my
bit.
It started a few months ago. I’ve been by myself a couple of
years; it gets lonely going back to the flat every night on my tod. Don’t seem
to have many friends, apart from Archie I guess when he’s not plastered; but
I’ve always preferred my own company. I come in on singles night, Tuesdays.
Five meals for one, single serve anything, some beer, some vodka too if I feel
flush. It’s unofficial singles night
of course, but we’re all in here doing it. Mostly fat-thighed middle aged hags
with varicose veins. They try to catch my eye sometimes, but I stare down at my
white knuckles on the handle of the shopping trolley. Even the cashiers try it
on with me, the girls and the boys.
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