Short Story (first draft)

I had acquaintance with her. She had visited the same secondary school as I.

We moved in different circles, to say the least. She would often frequent the dark corners and grassy knolls, away from the eye.


Several years passed.


I had begun working in a large convenience store, part of a chain, free from personality or guilt. There were no repercussions beyond the fleeting worry that one-day the anxious and twitching bosses would cut their losses and the paycheck would be your last. This was a fairly minimal concern, jobs were plentiful and turnover was common. One month…. perhaps two could pass at most before your name-badge was a different colour and the alleyway of smokers would contain a slightly altered range of aromas.


As a new range of bodies rolled along the conveyor belt and into the staff room, in a heavy beaten Summer, charged with whiskey and dancing, she entered. I recognised her, but had no desire to become acquainted (or re-acquainted based on perspective on the matter). I avoided her for some time, until the charge came upon me to train her in the delicate matters of retail. I attempted to cram the information into a brief bluster, then hide out amongst the boxes in the stockroom, until their towers overpowered me and my only solution was to hit the clock and stumble home.


This did not transpire. She wished to be re-educated at five-minute intervals, dragging me from my glad-shackles to impart my wisdom of moving items onto shelving units. This was most unpleasant as she barked in a torrid squall of a voice, sliding the meaningless words between cracked lips, to slither across the sticky floors.


This continued for some time, until I could no longer stand the indignity and begged respite.


I have a few close friends at in the store. After finding a sufficient distance we began to discuss her. The conversation soon turned to ridicule.


I walked to my locker and rolled a cigarette. The breeze outside chilled my spine. I began to watch the people pass on their daily errands, under the grey sky. A stout gentleman stumbled from the building across the way, spilling a trail of alcohol in his wake, muttering of the grievances he had encountered. He mumbled of children and lovers, spitting the words with a strange, solemn, slurring emotion. They trailed from his chin, and laid to rest around his feet.


I studied his movements, juddering, yet purposeful. He leaned against a lamppost and lit a cigarette. His face began to ease, the lines and crevices turning, as if in some moment of clarity and vision. His eyes began to glaze, a languid and aimless gaze. He saw something.


A lady approached me. Her hair was thin and red, faded. Her face was gaunt, her eyes dark. For a moment I believed her to be simply passing by, before her eyes fixed upon me.


“Excuse me, do you have fifty pence?”


I assured her I did not, as I was on a brief break from work and had brought nothing out with me. This was a lie.


She turned away and started towards a café, nearby to where the stout gentleman had been standing. After a few steps she reconsidered and turned back towards me.


She faltered for words, stuttering.


“I’m, I’m, look, I’m sorry, do you have any spare cigarettes?”


The cigarette was hanging limply from my mouth. I assured the lady that I did not and that this was my last one. This too was a lie.


 She continued to face me, seemingly apologetic. I was not quite sure how this would end. I was not quite sure how this should end. I added that I really was just on a brief break from work and I should be getting back.


“My daughter works in there”


I looked at her face. There was an emotion cracking through. I could not place it.


“Do you know if she is working today”


“No” I said. “I’m sorry, I’ve been in the stockroom all day. I don’t really see many of the other staff”. This too was a lie.


She apologised again. “Please don’t tell her I was here…” She continued this sentence. I recall the sentence as “She would kill me” but this does not seem quite right. Distorted. I recall the sentence as “She would be”.


I do not recall the sentence.


I returned inside and I did not speak to the girl again, and avoided all conversations that involved her.


Occasionally I recollect the lady’s face at night. I try to place the emotion I gazed upon. For some time I thought it as pride. Sometimes I look back and the face was totally blank. This distresses me until I fall asleep.



Joe