Bright sunshine floods the disinterested couple with anxiety, at the moment passing them by.  Sitting across from each other in the diner, every smile is another brick in the wall they race to build, racing to be the highest and the first and the only.  They put all their energy into alienating themselves from each other, as though tearing concrete slabs and phone books in half.

He’s trying to fuck his secretary.  The man has no imagination.  Shirt, safe.  Shoes, clean.  Gym membership, big arms but he’s never even punched a bus ticket.  Of course the secretary knows, and she plays him like a violin.  She tells her cackling friends that she’d rather fuck a tree stump.  He doesn’t even have any hair to grab onto.  Not like her partner, the elegant musician.  Guitar, piano, administrative staff – he can play them all.  Smoked dope at eleven.  Learned Stairway To Heaven at twelve.

Pity then, that the secretary doesn’t know about her musician’s secret visits to the Real Estate Manager.  She makes the call and drives out to empty houses, checking the plumbing and woodwork, testing the electrics and the wall… kitchen sideboard… whatever she can be fucked against.  Real Estate wasn’t her career idea.  She just wanted to travel in a cattle wagon across the Dakotas, not washing and looking at the sky trundle by.

Which is why she sits in this diner now, opposite a man who repulses her, adding another brick and another brick to the invisible wall.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

5 thoughts on “Milk”

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