|
Fried Scampi From Hell
|
7
|
| |
| |
|
|
'I can't believe I'm so stupid,' she says, directly at her
reflection. Her voice is strangely flat as if she feels that,
by this stage, sobs would go to waste.
'You're not stupid,' I say but I don't know how to explain it to
her any more than that.
'You're really clever,' I rush in, and she gives a snort just as
I know I shouldn't have said it. I go into the open cubicle and
yank off an arm's length of pink bog roll. She uses it to wipe
the slevers from her nose.
'Why does he have to be so bloody gorgeous?' she asks, dabbing
her eyes.
I don't know how to answer her and I am hoping that no one comes
in and sees her like this. Through the wall the slow record has
ended and Slade are singing
'So here it is Merry Christmas, Everybody's having fun. Look to
the future now, It's only just begun.'
'Anyway,' I try, 'I bet he doesn't have a Habitat duvet, and if
he does I bet it smells of fish.' She gives a big sigh and then
a watery smile.
'Yeah,' she says, 'like that stink you get down the pier.'
'Yeah, rotten old fisherman smell,' I say. 'Mingin' old cod.'
she says.
'Bouffin battered haddock.'
'Fried Scampi from hell.' And I start to laugh. And she is laughing
too and then crying a bit more.
|
| |
| |
| |
| |
|
