Camouflage jumper, one & a half stomachs, receding spikes and a vague look of determination as he steps out of his car and walks in front of me.
He's going somewhere - not in a hurry, but he knows where. I have this feeling that he's going to the massage parlour, but he's walking in the opposite direction of it.
I'd just strolled past in my usual custom of peeking through the window at the drab wood-panel walls and off-white curtains - so fitting and able to hide the stains of, shall we call it, 'massage fluids'.
He's going somewhere - not in a hurry, but he knows where. I have this feeling that he's going to the massage parlour, but he's walking in the opposite direction of it.
I'd just strolled past in my usual custom of peeking through the window at the drab wood-panel walls and off-white curtains - so fitting and able to hide the stains of, shall we call it, 'massage fluids'.
I'm looking at the back of his head and wondering where he is going, and then as if remembering something or realising he has confused the location, he turns around and walks back past me, looking me in the eyes.
I keep walking in my direction, just walking, walking, obliviously walking, knowing that he will be looking around to see if I am watching him.
And at just the time I know he will, I turn, and there he is stepping through the door of the down-hearted wank palace - his face turning pink and green in the permanent flashing Christmas lights, off to get a Friday night release. I walk on, laughing and keeping my mirthful, judgy disgust to myself and all of you.
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