Burning up and down country roads like a fucking goon.
From his gelled comb-over to his pristine Nike Air Max, the bloke was a grade-A twat and had no business rocking up in a muddy, potholed scrapyard. I braced myself but even with a lifetime behind me was emotionally unprepared for the absolute helmet that came around the bonnet to meet me. The truck was a Ford Ranger, souped up with giant rims and a spotless paint job-clear signs that whoever got out was going to be a prize wanker. On my way out of the cabin, I caught my reflection in a broken car mirror. Though paired with my tattoos, wild hair, and natural mean mug, it probably came off as a scowl. I abandoned my feline observation post with a heavy sigh and painted my best attempt at an amiable expression onto my face. Online, it seemed I was a creeper with blue fucking balls.Ī truck pulled into the yard. In real life, I was anything but, and struggled to keep my mouth shut in circumstances where my opinion added nothing to the situation but hassle I didn’t have time for. I mean, I did, as in I understood their function in the new world order, but I couldn’t reconcile myself with a first-time meet for the sole purpose of having sex. When customers weren’t around, I sat in the yard’s porta-cabin and entertained myself on Tinder, messaging blokes I’d never have the bottle to go and meet, and talking up the ladies with similar results.
When customers turned up to dump their junk, or raid the piles of abandoned crap stacked up around the yard, I stood around and pretended to give a shit as I passed cash back and forth and skimmed myself a cut from the top.
On the rare nights I didn’t stay out drinking, he kipped on the stairs outside the caravan I rented at the yard, scowling at me through the windows as if I’d refused him entry when in fact he’d refused to come in.
He sat outside my “office” all day and walked me home from the pub every night. My favourite cat dashed across the yard with the wind up him, chasing the first of the fallen leaves with limited success, and I mourned the endless evenings when Grey did the same with wily butterflies. The end of summer always seemed like the end of the world.
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