She hides one eye behind a torrent of thick, globulous, dyed hair. Teeth like an antique piano, I fantasise about their tune. Lame, I know. But then, I’m the guy who hovers around the beans, the peas and the tinned fish; with my squeaky trainers and leather trenchcoat; too big for my shoulders and too hot for a July afternoon. All for a glimpse, or maybe for nothing. The security guards follow me, pushing the products forward, making everything neat, making sure the labels match. I put my hands in my pockets and pretend I am cocking a pistol. I don’t know how; I just watch too many films, and I’ve practised the noise using the spit on my tongue.
I dream of being fondled inappropriately, because I’m too shy to make the first move, and too male to ever find the experience distressing. Sweat runs down my arms and…
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