remote cards

Outside. He staggers along the street. With that unsteady, likely to fall over in a moment style of the terribly drink, drugged or homeless. She is in better condition, just about, grim, blonde hair, tugged back beneath a white base ball cap, denim blue jacket over pink blouse top. She takes the back of his neck in one hand - pins him - holds him still, takes him in a strangle hold with her other hand, full of threat. Talks to him firmly, fiercely. Free again he rests his head and elbows on a street bin, that comes up to mid-chest level. She wanders off, before coming back to drag him after, reluctant and so hard done by. They come back, later, going the other direction, her carrying a bag of chips, folded white paper, unwrapped like a junk food flower, him staggering still. He turns and takes a handful of chips, leaning, forward and precarious. In brute fashion, she wipes her grease thick fingers on his cheeks. They get to the crossroad corner. He sinks on to a stone bench, asks a passer by for money. She drapes herself over his shoulder, kisses him like that. Minutes pass before the wander off, and out of sight again. Later, when I leave, I turn that same corner. To find them in an alleyway, whispering nothing sweet to each other.

Labels: chips, drunk, fish, glasgow, homeless, nothing, sweet