False smile.
I wait as the elderly couple in front of me slowly turn their greying scalps to face each other. Their blinking eyes exchange quizzical looks before their heads nod dog-like in approval. Their movements are inoffensive, and yet I slip into fantasy mode. I become eager for the moment during their nods when their descending faces pass ninety degrees. I can see the skin peel and flap off them, falling to the floor like twisting sycamores. They clutch at themselves leaving bloodied imprints on their palms.
I'm dying for a cigarette and some chocolate. I'm getting hot under my smart red uniform due to the stuffy heating system. This mingles with my frustration at the ineptitude of the customers. Like this couple who have just decided to take their little holiday in the Algarve. They are so unobtrusively insignificant that I just want to flick ash into their eyes. To see their expressions change from puzzled annoyance into blatant incomprehension. It would be then that I'd take the gun out from under the desk.
Blam! Blam! Valerie and Ann are still at lunch. Suzie and I go from one 'til two. Fifteen minutes more. Across the street I can see the newsagents, its windows obliterated by the National Lottery. My only salvation is that I know they will never sell out of my desired needs. Succour for the populace, I'm no outsider when it comes to stimulants. Although most other times I feel like I'm the only protagonist in this city.
Smiles again. Finally the woman is reaching in her purse now for some cash. I imagine their newly flaccid bank book, curling at the edges, smelling of old tea bags and the underlay of their carpet. It'll be much lighter now they've withdrawn most of their savings. Perhaps the latest entry will be in a slightly paler ink. Now she's counting out the money before me as though I've never seen it before. "And five that's fifty," she says, as she passes over the deposit.
I cross my legs under the desk and hear the creak of Alan's chair in the manager's office. The little wanker's probably jerking off again. As the only guy in an office of women it's ironic that he's a contemptuous little fatty. It beats me how the others can even bear to talk and tease with him.
The couple take their receipt and go. The queue moves forward shuffling its feet. Like a Chinese dragon on valium they move together as one long beast. Some of them will have reached their peak today in this queue, excitement unsurpassed. "Can I help you?" comes out of my mouth with little feeling.
He looks at the chair before he sits down. I can tell straightaway that I've landed an easy one. This guy knows the game, is quite relaxed and I can string him out. He asks for a flight only to New York, and I know he's going to compare the price with a bucket shop later on. He's just testing the water to see which is the deep end and which the shallow. But standing menacingly behind him in the queue are a couple who are obviously from the countryside. Their gormless faces stare blankly behind me at the faded advertisements along the wall. They're sure to be both inbred, their blue mittens concealing extra fingers. When the polar ice-caps melt they'll finally find a use for their webbed feet.
Snap. I toy with the New York guy, pretend my computer is slow. I go through the options in a roundabout way so that I can readily detain him. He's not good looking, I'd never sleep with him, but he's kind of knowing in a dominant way. He looks like the kind of guy who knows what he wants and then goes out to get it.
I look up as the bell rings over the entrance. Valerie has come back looking cold and flustered. I give the guy the lowest price and he gets up quickly and leaves it at that. Shortly afterwards I'm in the cloakroom pulling on my long blue coat and reaching for my bag. Valerie's settling in with the retards as easily as if she were with members of her own family.
Out. Out into the cool blue air. The moisture exudes from my mouth, hangs there as I take deep breaths. The day is fresh; cold even. The sky as pale as my mother's face when I told her I was moving in with two married men. I stride across the paved street, cutting through the pedestrians, make a beeline to the entrance of the newsagents.
Chocolate in my mouth. Kaboom! I feel satisfied and successful. I decide to take a walk up the street because really there is nothing else to do.
To my right I pass a woman with two children. One of them walks beside her holding her hand, and the other is being pushed in a cumbersome pram. Although neither of them are screaming they are a deliberate responsibility. I remember my delight when I read that the word mother also means a slimy substance that gathers in vinegar.
I continue to walk. I look in Schuh and similar stores. I pick up and then put down items under the vapid gaze of shop assistants. They leave me alone because it's evident that I don't need the determined push they reserve for weaklings. I have money in my pocket, but the weather is in my veins. I think about trying something on but just can't be arsed to take my boots off.
I can feel the chocolate nestling around my gums. Caught in the area between the soft fleshy inside of my mouth and my hard white teeth. My tongue twists around and reclaims it. I know every part of my mouth from my tongue. Yet a composite picture would be inaccurate because I only know it blind and inside out.
Towards me on the street walks a man who is carrying a bunch of flowers. His fingers are so cold that he's forced to hold them tightly around the stems. The lilac and white paper that they are wrapped in has become rucked by this winter pressure. He wears a suit and is mildly handsome. His shoes are black and clean. He glances at me when he passes and I give him a full-on warm and sexy smile.
I make it my business to smile at men who carry flowers. I know it makes them feel guilty and that they'll be thinking of me when they hand them to their wives.
Blam! Blam!
My favourite cocktail at the moment is called Haemoglobin. It's like a Bloody Mary with less of the Mary and more of the blood. When I was downing it last night I took a good look around at the retro crap. Girls in silver dresses trying to relive the sixties and yet look older. One of my regular males was drinking with me. In the seventies he was a punk. He sits and bores me with what he says were the good old days. When the music was fresh and new and vibrant people could make a difference. Yet when he spunks inside me later he's the same as all the others. His face bearing the hallmark of a stereotypical climatic function. Uh Uh Ugh.
And then he has the audacity to go back to his wife. They have a semi-detached outside the city which he's populating with kids.
That reminds me. Tonight I'll eat out again. Cooking is for whores.
In Marks & Spencer's buying underwear I catch sight of myself in a full length mirror. My long blue coat is a little too tight, and it's bunched up at my waist around the buttons. I undo them and feel freer, less constrained. My short, dark hair looks stylish today, and my face looks younger tanned. If it wasn't for the red uniform I could be anyone, anywhere.
Eye-games. Back in the street I approach HMV and notice a guy who has caught my reflection in the window. At this distance it must have been the slash of my red lipstick and the severity of my cropped hair. My long blue coat now unbuttoned fans behind me cinematically. If he hadn't have seen me he would now have walked away.
I stand beside him looking at his image superimposed on CD covers. Like a hologram he's more illusive than effective. I softly knock into his arm with my elbow and then walk directly into the shop, feeling mischievous with glee as I know for a fact that he's followed me in.
I move between the aisles, stopping at Bjork and then The Verve. In default he is forced alphabetically to flick through Bad Manners and U2. He keeps tilting his head in my direction like a budgerigar in a cage; hoping to catch my glance for a little smile or something else.
No chance.
I walk around to the videos and see him take the opposite route. He is expecting that we will meet somewhere in the middle. But as soon as I'm out of sight I double back and exit the shop. Another broken heart, another pang, another guilt.
Taking out a cigarette I then strike a match and light up the tubed tobacco. My sticky lipstick holds it steadily, horizontal from my mouth. With one drag the smoke enters my lungs, and shortly after is exhaled. Mixing with my breath it hangs almost tangible in the air until it dissipates.
I turn and begin to walk back down the street. The hive of television screens in one shop remind me that parts of Mexico have been destroyed by Hurricane Cleo. At least no one will be attempting to book flights there today. Give me the easy life, give me the easy going customers. Those who know what they want, rather than the inbreds who really make me want to snap.
At a newspaper stand I see that magazines still feature gleaming pictures of Princess Diana. It beats me why this country has always loved a tart with a heart.
I flick the tip of the cigarette away. It falls amongst the feet of the populace who walk over it unknowingly. Now in the distance I can already see the red surround of my place of work. I check my watch to find that I've only five minutes left.
I enter Tesco's and pick up a pasta salad. I'll eat it at my desk this afternoon. The green tagliatelle spirals inwards upon itself unawares. Whilst waiting in the queue I can feel impatience soaring up through my body from my feet. They're not only changing cashiers, but also the till roll, and old people are in front of me. I am not bitter nor unkind but simply truthful.
Back in the street it's started to rain. An almost piercingly cold shower. Elements of ice mixed with the water run off my skin. Before they can mesh into my hair and melt softly by degrees, I push open the door to the shop and hear the sound of that little bell. Apart from Valerie busy serving, the rest of the place is empty. I walk through into the back and remove my jacket, warm my hands over the electric heater. I just know that the rain is going to leave watermarks on my boots.
I return to my desk and take my seat. I log into my machine. ASFABABE is my password and the computer takes it with no question. I place the tub of pasta to one side and begin to prise open the plastic lid. Then the door opens and the guy from HMV makes the bell go ping.
He disarms me on my territory. Deliberately closes the door behind himself. He appears to be much more comfortable now he's contained in a smaller space. When he turns to look straight at me I find that I don't know what to expect. With some embarrassment I realise I'm forcing out a little grin.
Quite firmly, and with purpose, he goes straight to Suzie's counter. She smiles in recognition and then takes him through his confirmed itinerary. He is sitting with his back to me. It contains the allure of an erased blackboard. His flights are reflected in Suzie's eyes as though they are brilliant, darting, fireflies.
I look through the window and across the road. The newsagent's door is almost continuously open. Ice is sliding down the glass like tender fingernails on cold pale skin.
� Andrew Hook
Reproduced with permission
