Looking Hard, Talking Loud

Dark bespoke suit, shaved head and sunglasses. Too well-dressed for a back-street phone box. Bet his mobile ran out. Unshaven. Spent the night in the motor. Probably didn’t even sleep. White powder traces on the nearest available surface. Too tired and wired to notice me as I slide past.
His side of the conversation is clearly audible, along with the tapping of his pointing index finger, jabbing at the array of prostitutes’ business cards in front of him, punctuating certain syllables.
‘And I’M telling YOU that he’s DIS-AP-PEARED’, he says.
An advertisement featuring a life-sized female actress obscures my view of him and his of me through the glass door. I open it.
‘Gonna be long mate?’
His eyes meet the knife. I remove the wallet from his inside pocket, and then his mobile, car keys and loose change, replace the receiver and let the door swing back.

Back to writing

copyright paul rowlinson 2006