That morning was the lover's parade. Dead faces turned to my window as they shuffled past, every swan neck knotting to a rouged fist. I laid low. When the last heel had turned into London Road I lit a cigarette and stepped out into the street. From over the way the neighbours' houses screamed at me over moats of bifidus digestivum and come. The hybrid cars winked at me as I stepped closer, breasts crushed together, labial grilles moistened: willing, waiting. And hell that day was asymmetrical balding; happiness a de-scaled kettle. Dead children in another country were to blame for the riots at the petrol station. Another three pence on super-unleaded. They spared the Costa machine. I laid down in the rotting cardboard by the recycling tub and slid feet first up the side of the tree. Looking up, I watched the commuters filing past – eyes buffering – sipping foam from the vacuum-formed nipples of their mammary brands: men with no mothers. Mothers with no sons. And out past the emaciated magpies lying dead at the bottom of their Rolex nests I saw her turn into the street, floating seven feet off the ground, haloed by a concentricity of wedding rings and whipping umbilical cords, and as she brought her lips to my ear the tears streamed into my fresh-dyed hairline because she was right. She was so right. How dare anyone anything ever? How dare you “how dare” me like I don't know better?
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