He leans into the tops
of the tap handles, resting his chin on his hands, and stares
at the girl across the dark wood bar as he waits for her pint to
fill. It overflows and he doesn't even notice. Her head stays down as
she picks at a suede frill that hangs from her strap. Occasionally
she tugs hard and he can glimpse into the bag; each time is a
tantalising moment of nothing. What does he even want to see? He
guesses there is a book in there. And a pair of sunglasses. And a
tampon. And an untouched apple. And a small compact. And a lighter?
She doesn't want to
look up at him, she's too nervous. Is he just staring at her? Why is
he taking so long? She doesn't know what to do and she digs her nails
tighter into the suede strand, yanking the bag back and forth. Harder
and harder, it twists slightly around her and rucks up her cardigan
around her shoulder. Finally, she over does it and the contents spill
out; some on the floor, some on the bar.
The boy doesn't even
help, he's mesmerised by her suddenly spluttered contents, it's
caught him totally off guard. She scrambles her book from the floor,
along with a hairbrush, a phone, her wallet and a hair-clip. She
stands back up. On the bar is a lighter, a banana and some Vaseline.
The pint behind the bar has over filled the drip tray and dribbles
heavily onto the boy's crotch.
Their eyes meet.
Their eyes meet.
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