Part 9 of the Miserable Bastards Series
Her flat is nice. A book lover’s flat. There are books everywhere. In the hall, living room, kitchen, bathroom.
The whole place smells of books.
She is smiling as she laughs at me coming from the kitchen and offering me a glass of wine.
“I thought you worked at the library,” I say, “not owned your own.”
“A lifetime of books,” she laughs.
“I was ill a lot when I was younger. Chest infections every other month. A lot of time sitting about resting. My mum used to take me to the library and I just fell in love.
I stumbled into music too.
Patti Smith…”
“Jesus died for…,” she smiles.
“Oh, I love that. Do you write?” I ask.
She blushes a little.
“I used to stay in a flat with two other writers. We were always trying to outdo each other. I wrote some stories and some poetry.
One day I’m going to get a collection published.”
“What things do you write about?”
She smiles.
“Here’s one:
The lights are going out,
But the world is turning on.
Obsession,
Craving.
Pick your poison.
Flesh.
Music.
Booze.
Books.
The Speed of Light,
Flying above the earth.
Life calls.
Come to me.
Worship me.”
She starts giggling, as I look at her.
“I thought that was going to be shite, but that was decent,” I smile.
She punches me on the arm playfully, and says: “There is a poetry slam night down the road a few of my friends go to. It’s on tomorrow night, you should go. You’d be very welcome.
There’s some talented people down there. I nearly got barred a couple of weeks ago. Some arsehole was heckling everybody, me and my boyfriend escorted him out.”
I smile. “You don’t mess around, eh?”
She smiles and writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“Sure.”
I’m back out on the street and I check the note. It’s the address and 7pm.
I slip it back in my pocket and walk back down the street.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 