I clean out my msg inbox while waiting at my stop across from Pizza Express on the corner of Lapwing Lane. I do it ruthlessly. It’s my meditation when waiting for the bus or friends. I come across the last message I sent to my dad: ‘Do we spell skeptisim with a K?’ ‘No C,’ …
He held his spoon in a fist, like his granddad. It felt right. He was digging into his food, which seemed to be the point of a spoon. And it was way more practical than how his parents instructed that he hold it – between his thumb and forefinger like an upside-down pencil. His dad corrected him until he was nine.
Bill looked down at his plate and touched his knife and fork together. He surprised himself by how little he’d eaten. Sausages were the limit of his wife’s cooking ability – sausages, potato gems and frozen beans. And Bill gave the sausages most the credit in the exchange with his wife.
He heard the shower running when he woke up. He hoped she wouldn’t use all the water and then felt bad for thinking it. The feel of toast milling between his teeth slightly alleviated his mood. She sat silently with a face full of blame. He ate three slices, taking care with each bite…
The store started to flow. Middle-management on stolen lunch breaks toss half smoked cigarettes away at the door, snatch extra large take-away bags off the counter for the team back at the office and already have stuck another fag in their mouths before exiting.
Max stood at the restaurant’s dispensing station nearest the main entrance on the corner of Oxford Road and Portland Street. People use to call him Maxwell or Mr Hinkley, which he preferred. It was a professional courtesy and he liked it. It set him apart.
Christian Christian Senior strolled into McMahon Sports Bar either unaffected or unaware of his lateness. His punctuality or lack thereof was commonly known and easily tolerated by his wife and embraced by friends because he was such a damn charismatic fellow.