Think about the giraffe.
I miss her.
Giraffe.
I miss the sound of that stupid typewriter.
The look on their faces.
I miss the sound of her breathing next to me.
Don’t.
I miss everything about her.
Stop.
Stop now.
Don’t want to forget.
She’s gone.
It’s going to break off.
I’m telling you.
Wind keeps up like this.
Crumble.
Everything does.
You can do it.
Steady hand.
Be gentle.
Grain at a time stuff.
Look.
Over there.
Dolphin.
Dorsal fin has gone.
Broken off.
Told you.
Still in it.
Still got a chance.
Giraffe?
Idiot.
I miss her.
Abby was waiting in Mrs Whittle’s office. She was sitting in the green chair in front of Mrs Whittle’s desk where you sat when you had done something wrong. Abby hadn’t done anything wrong. Not that she could remember. She had pen on her uniform, but you couldn’t get told off for that. It wasn’t bad pen. It looked like a fish. Or a balloon. You could hardly see it.
Mrs Whittle was talking outside in the corridor. Abby didn’t know who she was talking to. The other teacher had gone home. The teacher that was still learning to be a teacher. She had nice hair and a fringe. She had funny teeth though. Abby wanted a fringe. She couldn’t have one. Her hair was too short. It was easier for her mum.
Abby was alone in the room. She wanted to go home. It was 5.18pm. There was a clock on the wall behind the desk. It didn’t make any sound.
Mrs Whittle stopped talking. Abby heard her walking away down the corridor. She was with someone. Abby didn’t know who. She couldn’t see. The door was pulled to.
The school was empty. Abby didn’t like it. She wanted her mum to come and collect her. Her mum didn’t. Someone else did.
It was 8.35pm. The bar wasn’t exactly packed. It was snowing outside. Not the kind of snow that can make even a disreputable old city like London look picturesque, but the other kind that quickly turns into a grey mush and leaves a ragged tidemark on your shoes that is almost impossible to get out. That kind. The singles event was supposed to have started an hour ago. Matt had been told that it was always busy. Every Wednesday night. Except this one. Clearly anyone with any sense had stayed at home and saved their shoes for another day.
There were a few people milling around. Maybe about forty in total. Mostly middle-aged men with unbuttoned suit jackets and thinning hair. They were all sucking their guts in and looking at the door. He wondered how long it would be before one of them passed out. Matt hoped he wouldn’t end up like them.
There were a few single women, too. One was wearing a chunky sweater that had one arm longer than the other and looked like it had been knitted by a chimpanzee. The other appeared to have a chandelier hanging from her nose. It caught the light in a strange way and sent a shower of sparkles dancing across the ceiling.
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