Bet she goes to the bookshop next. Probably doesn’t even read books. Or like markets. Won’t buy anything. Not even food. I don’t think she eats. Look at her. Nothing on her.
Her mum looks annoyed. Don’t blame her. Won’t take a minute, she said. Three. That’s what it’s been. Jacket on. Jacket off. With sunglasses. Not with sunglasses. Just pick one and move on.
See the way she’s got her arm. Models do that. She’s not tall enough to be a model. She looks tall coz she’s skinny. And she’s got heels on. Must be killing her. Walking round here in them … nah … fuck that.
Her friend looks nice. She could be a model. Looks a bit like Beth.
She’d be all over this. Have it all planned out and everything. We’ll go here and then here, and then we’ll have lunch here, and we must go here, and I must show you this place, it’s the best, you’ll want to buy everything, and then we can have drinks, I know somewhere amazing, secret, you always see someone famous, no-one bothers them, they let me in coz they know me … they’ve seen me … with him.
I hate him. He’s such a jerk. She knew I was coming today. She must have told him. He would have known. And he still did it. They could have gone next weekend, or the one after. It’s not like he’s busy. Wanker. Hope they kill him off.
‘Hey … hello.’
‘Sorry … wasn’t concentrating.’
‘I can take a picture of you, if you want?’
‘Err … thanks.’
‘All good.’
‘I like your sunglasses.’
‘You want to try them? They’d look good on you.’
‘Umm … thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Wanna do one with them on first?’
‘Sure … okay.’
This fictional short story was written for a 50 Day Project organised by the artist Amanda Billing. I get 45 minutes to an hour (not the project’s rules, it’s just about the time I have right now) to write a story, sometime between 4.30am and 5.30am. After that, the day is no longer mine.
N.B. The sketch image for this short story was created using AI (at best, I can draw a half-decent stick man). The words are all mine.
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