Shop Girl

Dotted across the city like dogshit, there must be a million others the same. Where fingers filch about in pockets for poultry change, crisps, cans, cigarettes, soon exchanged, and their chemicals that fist the insides of humans, with their flicker of hopes. Corner shops.

Days have drifted past like three little dots, and I must have seen her a million times the same. Stood there behind the till: slim, long and white. Like an unlit cigarette, or beam of pure light. And her thin feeble fists working away, day after drifting day.

Today, two pink and bright lines have danced upon her pretty face: eyeshadow, she wears at work for the first time. He spied them fluttering from the line. Perhaps those eyes are lit up like a butterfly, utterly beautiful, and so free to fly away.

Or perhaps, she has had enough of staring silently down this line of dull, dark-suited men, whom desperately and always fail to flirt with her. And now she's decided to crudely signal that now she's a prostitute, saying: come at me with cocks ready, cock in my mouth, cock down south, cock behind me, flood me like a can of drink exploding over lips, or climb through me with your cocks, the way sharp crisps crawl and crunch down the throat, or blast me and burn me with a heat like the the tips of cigarettes; come, cocks, into me. Here I will have you all, and I can never be full, so come with your cocks and fists, ready and easy like change.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps ... and so I pay, and say goodbye.