Chunk Of Change

He remembered her smell.

That sweet, cheap, perfume that she wore. He found himself longing for it. Yet just a few hours ago he had hated it and her.

He’d wandered the streets long enough, time to go back now. He knew how to win her round. A couple of bottles of thunderbird and some of that sweet sherry she liked should do it.

It was a silly row.

He’d thrown a strop when he'd seen her with Jack from the next door squat. Silly really, he knew they were just close. More like brother and sister. Nothing going on, he was sure of that.

He sat on the park bench.

An empty two litre bottle of cider beside him and another almost finished. Good value, only three quid a bottle from the shop on the corner.

He was pleased with himself.

He’d managed to nick some face and hand cream from the shelves. That Ulay stuff, now called Olay, fuck knows why they changed it. Sold it for a chunk of change. Enough to buy what he needed to make it up to her.

He was sure he had enough to buy the booze, some baccy and a book of greens.

Tonight they’d celebrate.

He’d tell her what he’d told no one before. She was the one. Perhaps they could find a place together just the two of them, instead of sharing a squat with nine others. He’d start looking out for an empty flat somewhere. Break in and claim it.

Time to go.

The cider had kicked in. He was a bit wobbly on his feet as he stood up. Steadied himself and walked on. Not the kid he used to be. Not now. He was unsure exactly how old he was, but probably nearly sixty. Born in 55. Wasn’t very good at maths. Never had been.

He saw the shop.

Stood on the kerb and counted his pennies. A chunk of change. Perhaps a tenner, maybe more.

He stumbled into the road.

The car hit him at speed. He felt himself flying through the air. Peaceful and calm. He was dead before he landed.

The driver stopped and got out of the car. All he saw was a tramp, an empty cider bottle and a chunk of change.