The door creaked as it opened and the man thought that he heard something sigh. A spider’s web stuck to her long black hair. She twisted it around her forefinger, flicked it into the air and stepped inside. He noticed that she did not close the door behind her. He leaned forward and peered into the shady interior.
Amidst the dust and shallow light, he saw an assortment of washed up junk heaped around the room. In the centre was a stack of used condoms and plastic coke bottles, fashioned in the shape of a rocking chair. To the right, under the window, a stack of dried seaweed lay on top of one another; like the shrivelled flesh of long dead corpses. To the left, where he saw the woman squatting, was a bundle of threadbare clothing.
She held up a large pair of black swimming trunks and poked her finger through a hole in the crotch. She wiggled her digit about and chuckled. He smiled too, took a deep breath and as cautious as a fox, entered the room.
‘Wipe your feet. Who brought you up?’ the woman said, dropped her swimsuit and stood.
‘Oh, right, sorry.’
‘Don’t touch anything.’
The man inched his way over to a weather beaten piece of wood and sat.
‘So, what’s the story?’
‘Girl trouble? Boy trouble? Trouble, trouble? All three?’
Tears began to well up in his eyes. He closed them quickly, before the salty drops could escape.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish