I didn’t wish him luck. As it wasn’t that kind of business. Plus, I didn’t want to. I watched him join the crowds. Thing was, he did look like Mickey Rourke. But late-night Brixton, most do, even the women.
***A cheap walkman as music would pass the time for him. Then a new dilemma.
What tapes would he like? From the sublime to the ridiculous. I got Aretha and Whitney Houston. I drew the line at Stevie Wonder. Not even a hostage would endure that torture.
***She’d a lush body that summoned up jail sentences.
***Remember it, one of those songs you heard all the time, you’d no idea what it meant. In fact, if pressed, you couldn’t even say if you liked it. But you knew it and, worse, it clung. One of those songs that hung out with, “me and you/and a dog named boo”.
***I walked towards the Oval. Just pick any pub. I did, on the Stockwell side. This is where they mug Rottweilers.
***I met her in the Rose and Crown on Clapham Common. A pub that still merits the name. The requirement was only to be a drinker.
You didn’t have to play pool.
Munch Hawaiian crisps.
Flaunt on sexual prowess.
© Peter Rozovsky 2011