Yesterday for lunch I had a cheese sandwich and a coffee. The bread wasn’t stale, the milk was in date, and after I chewed and swallowed my tummy stopped talking. I sat on a particularly ugly red stool, too tall for a tallish man to touch the ground; I sit on it nearly every day.
In the wind, on the other side of the glass smokers smoked their delicious smokes; I tried my best to call them idiots. I sipped my coffee, brushed my crumbs from table to floor and missed my family. I sent my dad a text message, talking footy. He sent one back, talking footy. The world felt about as big and complicated as the wine section at Tesco. I laughed to myself without warning, and then laughed at my laugh, still trying to chew and touch the ground.