London Diary 49

It’s simple. All I got to do is sell. Sell like crazy. It is a job, just like any other. Except I am my own boss, I got a ready source of clients and I got to watch my back for the fuzz.

No matter what she told herself, the reality was different. She was always looking from side to side. Shifting her eyes, always afraid. The confidence with which she tried to instill within her was nothing more than sticking tape. A brief respite for the deep wounds she had already cast upon herself.

Enter club. Head to the bar. Drink. Need drink. I hate the stuff, normally, but I need something to hold. And something sweet. And I need a booster. But not too sweet. In the end, I will be sick too soon. My body cannot stand this stuff.

She laid her cash on the bar. To get money, she had to spend money. That Ten Pound note was hard for her to part with, but she knew she had to blend into the crowd. And a drink always does that. She did not want to drag attention to herself. It took all her might to stop her bolting from the front door when the bouncer asked her how she was. For some reason he let her past the velvet rope into the bar. Why, she thought.

I can’t do it with a guy. I never liked them. God knows how I had my little boy? I just wanted a child. But I can’t approach them easily. But I see her, she’s cute. Alone, probably waiting for her friends. And she has nice shoes, that means something. I see my own footwear. Tatty. Thankfully it’s dark, but it’s the one thing I should have remembered. Well, I did, but the clothes cost me enough. I couldn’t afford the shoes as well. I know I don’t look the part, but we all got to start somewhere, right?

She approaches the bar. Hi she says. The girl smiles back at her. They get chatting. The usual. Weather, life, friends. I like your bag. Thanks, she replies, I picked it up in a market, vintage. That bag contains her life, the reason for her being in this bar. A cocktail of posoin to some, a vast wealth of joy for others. But she has to decide how she will exchange that powder for cold, hard, currency.

I’m a shit. I know that. But I need cash. Being nice doesn’t pay the bills. You get a kick in the teeth for minimum wage, but the world doesn’t work like that. I need more. Time is running out for us. And the one thing money doesn’t buy is time. ut it makes the time passing more sweet. And I need that cash, now. I need to help my ove, before she goes. Before she leaves us to face this wilderness alone. Life is a strange puzzle, but I can’t figure it out. My head hurts, but I still smile. I need to sell this stuff fast and get out of hear. The music gets to my ears, the beats are loud, the lyrics faint. The details pale out, I just need to keep my cool.

They head to the bathroom. She takes the money with glee. In all it was less than twenty minutes, but she already has a ton in her pocket. One hundred pounds, just like that. Her client starts snorting on the sink. She wishes she would hurry up, but she knows that part of the deal is for her to keep a look out. Snorting finished, she gently rubs the back of her new benefactor. But this friendship is only temporary. She knows she has to get out of this club quick. The bouncers will see that she is alone, and they are not stupid, they want their cut. But she didn’t come here to share her gains. Five minutes later she is out of the door, he cold air of the night, slapping her cheeks, sobering her up. She turns into n alley, shaking as she count the cash again. One hundred pounds, in just a few minutes, she thinks to herself, that’s normally three days work.

The night is still young. There is more work for her to do…

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2 Comments

Filed under writing

2 responses to “London Diary 49

  1. Nice story or is it stories? Like seeing through different windows, one gets just fragments of truth and information.

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