Waiting
for half an hour to meet people he glances at books to pass the time.
Art theory and architecture and design and so on. He wonders if his
sister orders the books in but won't remember to ask her.
Spinning
around he sees her for the first time, low cut and a little frilly, and
he quickly turns back to the books, not wanting to stare. Inside he
knows he wants his eyes filled with her again.
He
can hear a faint clicking. He tries to distract himself with words on
spines and is soon turning around thinking she must have moved so it
will be okay. She has, but a continuation of the swivel finds her bent
over and he can see a lot more than the first time.
And
with her eyes glancing a little up he thinks she probably saw him.
Once more in the refuge of books and with two pints of lunchtime 'Pride
faded from his blood he knows he cannot look at her again.
It
is then that the giant cricket appears on his back and whispers words
of shame as he continues to wander through the shop. By the postcards
he sees her at the till and he asks for his skin to be removed.
“I didn't ask for this,” he says, “Just take it and give me something better, something new.” The cricket laughs; that is not what he does. And he continues to stick the man's mind with his feelers.
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