See the Kid

See the kid.

He enters and there is no one. Behind the door an index finger meets lips.

No hello just takeyourshoesoffplease. The kid does so and is watched as he does so.

He enters The Room and sees that the ambiance is provided by two 40 watt bulbs and there are cheap prints of women on Italian beaches in long flowing red dresses looking nowhere in particular. Class courtesy of a department store. The originals are probably in Italy or more likely America (you know what they’re like).

The bed clothes belong somewhere else, the 50s perhaps or the North.

The kid’s gift is then taken and a cheaper sort is offered. It is much colder apparently but also bitter and fizzy. Bizzy?

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about champagne. What’s the best sort?”

There’s a smile and then another.

“It really depends on what you like.”


After the kid’s coat is taken and hung and enthusiasm peaks and he is invited to do paperwork.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The wad is slippery but bulky. Slulky? It finds its place then vanishes.


The third shower of the day is mandatory and is the coolest.

“Eh. I suppose you’ve read Adam Smith?”

Talk is boring

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Umm, no.”

kisses wet. The act self-evident.

“Bit dated I imagine.”

Thoughts turn to the cat that apparently exists.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The owner disappears for the third or fourth time. Remember to pick up mouthwash tomorrow.

“Tell me, what is it you do?”

Half a glass remains and etiquette is unclear and photos are glanced at. Can cats feel contempt?

“Uh, thanks.”

Shoes are allowed now. Both see the lace snap.


Yes. Tense.

The man leaves heavier than before.


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