Epitaph

He loved it when she smoked. Afterwards, in the dark. He'd make her laugh and watch her shadow amongst the smoke.

Feature by Sarah MacDiarmid | 16 Apr 2006
11am. He's late for work. Again. Fuck it. The bottle from the night before is still beside him. He walks past it on his way to the bathroom, pretending not to notice it.
It's only been two weeks since he last saw her. Saw her with him. That prick that works in the Traverse or Lyceum or some shit. Arsey cunt. Obviously gay. Holding hands, uninterested. A pretence of happiness.
It was nothing special, mind. Didn't last long, never does. The kitchen table is covered with empty bottles, fag ends and old gig tickets. Maybe he'll go to the theatre, have a wee go at some culture. Maybe not. His fuckin' hair though, all fuckin' perfect and blonde. She doesn't even like blondes. She told him once when that guy in the pub was eyeing her up. Prefers dark-haired guys, always has.
Time for his morning fag. Shit, he has to give up. He loved it when she smoked. Afterwards, in the dark. He'd make her laugh and watch her shadow amongst the smoke.
Right, he has to sort himself out, enough about her, she's with that cunt. He scratches his head and messes up his hair. He's not a bad looking guy. He can get a bird. Aye, birds like him: "Fucking lovely guy," he's heard them say. He'll find himself someone else soon. Someone like her. But not her. Bitch.
They'll go to gigs and his mates'll love her, this new bird, just like they did with her.
Oh, who the fuck is he kiddin'? 11.10am
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