Purple suit lining flashes as he passes plus the smell of some sort of strong aftershave that's supposed to smell manly.
Emaciated girl applies lip balm for as long as it takes the man to change from red to green.
Many Canadian tuxedos.
A balding man finger combs his hair over the patch.
Sweet sweet popcorn smell.
The street we kissed on. Every time I pass it I think again of that odd blue time.
Apostrophes all wrong everywhere again. Beginning to take it personally.
I've never been back to the pub on that street but I think if I did there would be no hope or sorrow or romance just a sort of confused cruelty hanging around like when it fucked up. I'll applaud myself for knowing the difference but still be sort of sad in a stupid stupid way.
The council have bolted these chairs to the ground in groups no larger than three. Unstealable. The effect of community. As if you've bumped into a friend and they've pulled up a chair haphazardly and you've talked for hours without realising.
We sat there cold drunk and horny waiting for the bus and eventually just walking.
See how Brixton has changed for the better? Chairs!