Maybe today, I think. ***<\/p>\n \u2018All right Matt?\u2019 I ask an hour later, the bell on the caf\u00e9 door tinkling as I close it behind me. ***<\/p>\n A new day. Friday, I think, although they all blur into one. It\u2019s half seven, so my phone tells me, and as per, I\u2019m dossing in bed, a rapidly hardening clump of tissue discarded next to me, the empty feeling creeping back in. It\u2019s becoming far too habitual, this is. I must get it under control. Starting from now, I pledge. Ejaculation embargo. A video flicked up on my phone the other day of some woke arsehole banging on about the benefits of semen retention<\/i>. Reckons he can run a marathon and jump over a mountain and all that shite. So even my algorithms have got me pegged. Fuck you Zuckerberg. ***<\/p>\n \u2018Ooh, he is a clever dog isn\u2019t he,\u2019 Mrs. Wright says. ***<\/p>\n God I hate this. Queues. We\u2019re hunter gatherers, man, what sick bastard invented the queue. ***<\/p>\n Fuck it. I\u2019m doing it man. No more \u2018maybe today\u2019. I look at the clock although I know the time full well. Quarter to eight. Noel keeps looking at me, he doesn\u2019t know what\u2019s going on, though he\u2019s pleased breakfast was prompt today, he\u2019s staring at me like I\u2019ve gone out. Even more so when I go and give him some fuss, which I never normally do to such excesses this early in the morning. He loves it though the simpleton. \u00a0<\/p>\n [Image Credit : Photo by Janis Dzenis<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a>]<\/p>\n Jake Findlay lives just outside Wolverhampton with his wife, two children and a constant succession of small mammals. He began writing during lockdown, shoehorning the odd sentence in between home schooling and the day job.
+++++<\/span>Looking out the window of my pokey flat, fresh boiling cuppa in my hands, too hot to drink yet, this is where I stand most mornings and let my pompous inner monologue try to inject some meaning into the day. The steam rises to my face, clouding my sight and reaching over my skin. It could help, who knows.
+++++<\/span>I\u2019ve not long got out of bed at this point. The innate guilt of masturbation has worn off after a spell of scrolling through football gossip and ex-girlfriends\u2019 socials and so ennui forces me to rise. That and Noel, I suppose.
+++++<\/span>I try to blow on my tea, but no dice. I just end up gurgling spit bubbles into it, and they swirl and pop in the middle of the brew, mocking me. I half scowl and give up, it\u2019ll be drinkable in a minute, so I go back to looking out the window and think about breakfast. Or thoughts of breakfast are pushed into my loaf because I can hear Noel behind me troughing his. I put it off until lunch sometimes, breakfast. Eating\u2019s the hardest part. Morsels of food chewed on the right side only, ushered down the gullet with a reluctant tongue. The arduous task accentuated by constant drooling. Actually, perhaps drooling is the hardest part. People stare.
+++++<\/span>I\u2019ve thought these thoughts, or something similar every day for the past twenty-five months now. Two years! The first few days were different. Dark, I suppose, but not hopeless at least. Twenty-five long months since Doctor Capollo had forecast \u201cbusiness as usual within four to six weeks, Mr. Sinclair, we\u2019ll get that smile back, hey!\u201d The cunt.
+++++<\/span>Covid was sound. Self-isolation? Absolutely Boris. No problemo. But the big bad world has opened up again now hasn\u2019t it, no more frolics and furlough, just a cost-of-living crisis and Bell\u2019s palsy.
+++++<\/span>Maybe today, I think again, pushing matters of state and debilitating physical deformities out of my mind. I take a gulp of my brew, bitter and black, catching myself knocking it back like a shot before it can trickle out of my mouth. I roll my eyes at myself, which stings the left one as Glenn Moore calls out the time to me from the radio in the kitchen, which is decent of him, because I\u2019m approaching a crucial juncture in the day. Eight o\u2019clock. Bus time.
+++++<\/span>Maybe today.
+++++<\/span>The bus pulls up right on time, fair play driver. And right on cue there she is. Jogging today, running late. Her soft blonde hair billows behind her, face contorted into a panicked grimace as she waves to the driver to wait. Still beautiful though, blue eyes and red lips, those black tights with a line running up the back of them. I fantasise about the bus driving away, coughing out black smoke from the exhaust in its wake, swallowing her as her hand flops down to her side, dejected and distraught. That\u2019s when I emerge from my pokey little flat, heroic and bold, offering the lady a lift, handing her a handkerchief to dab at her wet eyes. She smiles and thanks me. People aren\u2019t kind anymore she says, you\u2019re a rare find. I crack some joke which she laughs at and my chest swells. Just this way Miss, your carr-i-ag\u00e9<\/i> awaits.
+++++<\/span>I will it to happen, and not to at the same time. Knowing I\u2019d never leave the flat should she miss her bus. People aren\u2019t kind anymore, she\u2019s right. I am, I\u2019d say, but what am I going to do, dribble at her?
+++++<\/span>I blink with my one good eye, and she\u2019s on the bus. Heading to destinations unknown. Oh well. Maybe tomorrow. Breakfast can wait, I\u2019ve not got much on today, so I sink back into my fantasy as I walk back to the bedroom. It takes a turn now, and she\u2019s really grateful for a lift. So grateful that we agree to have coffee the next day, but she can\u2019t even wait that long, the sort, and we go at it in the back of my van. She\u2019s experienced and passionate and I\u2019m a version of me that exudes confidence. I satisfy her completely and we roll off one another panting, like on TV.
+++++<\/span>That fantasy doesn\u2019t take long to concoct. It never does, so two minutes later I\u2019m getting out of bed for the second time today, breathing a bit heavier than before with the innate guilt clutching around my chest once again. Noel, loyal Noel, football extraordinaire, trots up to me, white socks padding on the laminate, claws clicking, lead in mouth dropping it at my feet with absolutely no subtlety at all. I\u2019ve normally taken him by now in fairness, I bet he\u2019s been baking a loaf for an hour, poor little bugger.
+++++<\/span>I acquiesce and pick the lead up. He doesn\u2019t need it on, he knows where we\u2019re going as well as I do. He knows where his bread is buttered as well for that matter, he\u2019s not running off anywhere. Smart dogs, Collies. So, I snatch the bobble out of my hair and muss it around my face before we head out. I do that now, it\u2019s a thing. Not vain, like, but it hides a bit more of my face. I used to be a short back-and-sides man before all this palaver, but deformities change a person. I snatch a pair of sunglasses off the mess that is the coffee table as well, even though there\u2019s no sun to speak of. That\u2019s a thing now too. People probably think I\u2019m a right dickhead when they see me coming. In fact, I know they do.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Hey up, here comes Slash,\u2019 I hear them mutter from their benches outside the pub. Bastards. But whatever, man. I suppose the derision is better than pity. \u2018Slash\u2019 though? Come on, I look nothing like him, do better, man. Alex Turner was wrong; rock and roll is dying in front of our eyes.
+++++<\/span>The old man gives me a buzz as I cross the road, Noel at my heels.
+++++<\/span>\u2018We still on for today, Ry?\u2019 he asks.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Yeah, sound, just walking the hound,\u2019 I say.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Nice one,\u2019 he says and hangs up. We\u2019re a family of few words, and he either didn\u2019t notice, or couldn\u2019t care less about my perfectly contextual rhyme of a response. Miserable sod.
+++++<\/span>Nice to be back on good terms with him though, the old fella. Getting long in the tooth now, or he would be if he had any of his own left. Didn\u2019t open the door to me for a week when this palsy thing kicked off, him and the old dear. Told them I wasn\u2019t back on the gear, but what can you do?
+++++<\/span>\u2018Aye, we\u2019ve heard that one before!\u2019 I remember him shouting through the letter box in that thick, Scottish, accent of his. I suppose they had. But I wouldn\u2019t have popped round to their gaff if I was coming up, would I? Daft cunt.
+++++<\/span>I do miss it, I suppose. Sometimes. Can\u2019t beat getting off ya box with your mates. It takes so long for the fear factor to disappear, realising a sniff or a pinger won\u2019t kill you off straight away. Then you get cocky. That\u2019s dangerous. Then, something like this happens and the fear is right back with you. Funny old life. Nothing stronger than a bit of cheese for me these days I reckon.
+++++<\/span>I realise my feet have carried me around the green and back home, Noel in tow as I consider the intricacies of my relationship with hard drugs. Noel\u2019s satisfied now, and he says as much with a low gurgle when I open the door for him. Straight back to his bed for a post-walk doss. Life of Riley, that dog. I fling myself on the sofa and grab the grinder off the coffee table, reasoning a quick spliff will give me an appetite, and I\u2019ve got to eat after all, haven\u2019t I?
+++++<\/span>I\u2019ll drop Mrs. Pullman a text in a sec and let her know I\u2019ll be round a bit later than planned. She won\u2019t mind. I give Dad a bell telling him I\u2019m running late and he gives me an earful, \u2018effing and blinding all over the shop, so I win him back over with the promise of a bacon butty from the caf. He relents and hangs up. I skin up.<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>\u2018Hullo mate! Long time no see, how ya bin?\u2019
+++++<\/span>A nice guy, Matt, despite what the girls in the shop next door say. Can\u2019t be friendly anymore, can you?
+++++<\/span>\u2018The usual?\u2019 he asks, not waiting for an answer.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Twice please mate, promised the old man one un\u2019all.\u2019
+++++<\/span>He chuckles good naturedly.
+++++<\/span>I spot a table in the corner and head over to avoid any more small talk, instinctively I sit with my back to the door and flick through the paper someone left while I wait.
+++++<\/span>The bell on the door tinkles again right as I\u2019m skimming past page 3, pretending not to look. A stray blob of spit leaks out of my mouth as I do so, and I know I must look like the staunchest of perverts. Cuffing my mouth and looking around red faced to see if anyone noticed, I hear a familiar voice at the counter.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Matty! All Day Breakfast to gew please cocka,\u2019 he boomed, as if everyone in the caf\u00e9 needed to know what he wanted.
+++++<\/span>The flush creeps up my face, hot and sickly. Still hunched over the paper, I sneak a glance behind me, a furtive look over my shoulder with the good side of my face hidden between chunks of hair. What an emo.
+++++<\/span>Jacko is standing at the counter waiting for his ADB-to-go scrolling through his phone. It\u2019s Thursday today and the Wolves played in the cup, so he\u2019ll have been up the town last night I reckon, now in here to soak it up before ambling in late to work. He\u2019ll get away with it though, the jammy git. Plus, it must help working for daddy. Matt catches my eye from behind the counter, and I see he\u2019s about to point me out to Jacko, but I shake my head frantically, and he gets the hint. He\u2019s back to his griddle without a word. Nice guy, Matt. I turn back to the paper and stare at an article about the Horizon scandal without taking it in.
+++++<\/span>The minutes eek by. Jacko hasn\u2019t said anything since he put his order in, thank God for hangovers.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Bacon and egg, twice, well done bacon\u2026?\u2019 Matt\u2019s Mom calls out from behind the counter, lisping through the gaps in her teeth.
+++++<\/span>Shit! Now what?
+++++<\/span>\u2018They ay back yet, Mom,\u2019 I hear Matty say quietly to her. I dig in my pocket making sure I\u2019ve got a decent amount of coins to stick in the tip jar.
+++++<\/span>Five minutes later Jacko is walking out the door. Barking into his phone which has some poor sap on loudspeaker at the other end, and I wait for his silhouette behind the clouded glass of the shopfront to disappear before getting up to go to the counter.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Cheers for that mate,\u2019 I say to Matt who\u2019s still busy busting eggs onto the griddle that seems as if it\u2019s been bubbling away non-stop since 2005.
+++++<\/span>\u2018No worries.\u2019 He winks.
+++++<\/span>He doesn\u2019t ask for an explanation as he grabs a rag from the counter, wiping his hands before handing me my sandwiches over with another huge yellow grin. He gets it. Had his fair share of shit too with those rumours. Keep your circle small man. A lesson hard learned sometimes.
+++++<\/span>I drop a few quid in the tip jar and am back in the van en route to old grumpy bollocks ten seconds later, wiping my eye that smarts every time I step into the sunshine, still hungry because of Noel\u2019s puppy dog eyes from the passenger seat scamming me out of half the bacon out my scran as I hastily ram the rest down my gullet like an awkward bird.<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>Noel pads in from the front room and hops onto the bed. I snatch my kegs up, unwilling to be found in a compromising position by a fellow male. He sniffs at the tissue and looks at me, head cocked and an accusatory glint in his eye. I resent this but give him some fuss anyway until he curls up next to me.
+++++<\/span>\u2018We\u2019re both men of the world,\u2019 I say to him.
+++++<\/span>He whines, \u2018Or were, at least, sorry.\u2019
+++++<\/span>Fast forward twenty minutes, and once again Noel is in the kitchen, scoffing like a good\u2019un, loud and carefree. Loves his fodder, that dog. At least one of us does. I\u2019m in the bathroom, poking at my useless face in the mirror. Sorry, not poking,
+++++<\/span>\u2018Just five minutes a day can make all the difference, Ryan,\u2019 I hear Doctor Capollo say in my head. I glance at my phone. Two minutes down. It flashes right as I look at it and tells me a courier has delivered my parcel. Two minutes will do for today I reason, and I hot-foot it to the front door and there on the mat lies a small package, nondescript to the highest degree. I snatch it up and tear it open, marvelling at the digital age. We do live in the best of times man, despite it all, an era where drugs can be delivered right to your doorstep is indeed a time to be alive. The Gods bless Telegram.
+++++<\/span>It has its other uses, aside from technological autonomy. I haven\u2019t had to buy off any of the scrammels around here for months now. It\u2019s a legitimate boost for my mental health as well, I genuinely believe it. No need for that hardcore skunk they all smoke in the alley at the back of the flats, the stuff that smells like Snoop\u2019s dog bowl and knocks you off your bonce all day. I can find a nice mellow hash now, to get me through. I\u2019ve missed hash. The old man still takes exception though which is rich. He\u2019s been a bit of a dog in his day, God knows\u2026so does everyone else for that matter. Even Scotland couldn\u2019t handle him, so he\u2019s wound up down here. He never noticed yesterday though, and he put a shift in to be fair. I\u2019d only planned to mow Mrs. Pullman\u2019s lawn, but if a man wants to trim hedges, let him trim hedges I say! See him more these days now he does the gardens with me sometimes, and he\u2019s still at it, loves a drink that man. So he can go and bollocks.
+++++<\/span>I\u2019ve torn open the package, and rolled a fat one immediately, not for right now though, I\u2019m not that deranged. But just as I put the finishing twist around the end of it and lay it gently on the table, I hear the weather from the radio in the kitchen. Rain from noon. Balls. Gardeners worst enemy. Better get a shift on if I want to make any paper today, it\u2019s already after eight and Mrs. Wright\u2019s is half an hour awa\u2026
+++++<\/span>Shit!
+++++<\/span>I run to the window just in time to see the bus trundling away towards the town. \u2018Fucks sakes man\u2019, I say to no one, wiping a sliver of dribble from my chin. Maybe tomorrow.
+++++<\/span>I flat out ignore Noel\u2019s hints for a walk and storm into the bedroom to get dressed, smudging a layer of guilt over whatever else is going on in my breadbox. He can come with today, old Wrighty doesn\u2019t mind dogs.
+++++<\/span>Skipping that all important first cuppa, I\u2019m out the house five minutes later, toast in hand, ushering the hound into the back of the van.<\/massaging.><\/i><\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>Noel is staring up at her, head cocked waiting for her to kick the ball at her feet back to him.
+++++<\/span>\u2018He\u2019s no fool,\u2019 I say, cuffing some errant spit from the corner of my gob. \u2018You\u2019ve got a job for life now.\u2019
+++++<\/span>I wipe my brow with the back of a dirty hand and spear my spade into the soil. A telltale click in my knees as I get up from the floor forces me to contemplate mortality. I\u2019ll ache tomorrow. Still though, I ponder as I watch Noel running rings around a ninety-year-old, it\u2019s good living really, man. I congratulate myself daily for getting out of that rat race shit at Jacko\u2019s Dad\u2019s firm, almost grateful my face slipping gave me a nudge out of the door. I\u2019m still busy secateuring as the first drops of rain start to leak out the sky, the patter on the leaves is right therapeutic though, so I crack on.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Don\u2019t you worry Mrs. Wright, I\u2019ll be done in ten!\u2019 I call to her when she fusses. \u2018I\u2019ll be out of your hair soon.\u2019
+++++<\/span>I did give the poor old mare a scare when I first knocked on to see if she needed a gardener. Used to it now like, but the taped-up eye making me look like some sort of pirate \u2013 actually, yeah, a lot like a pirate, I think, not completely displeased. Like Robin Williams when Tinkerbell tells him to blend in, all drooling and limping. Ha! Not that I\u2019m a swashbuckler, hay fever and Bell\u2019s palsy are a poor, poor mix, man.
+++++<\/span>Noel hops into the open van telling me he\u2019s had enough, so I start packing up. I\u2019d be stuck in an office for another three hours now once upon a time, pretending not to think that geezer from IT wasn\u2019t an arsehole as he mumbles instructions to some poor sap in a cracked drone, his monotone punctuating an otherwise speechless room. Clicking keyboards and the constant whirring of modems such a staple that you forget to hear them, listening only to the vulnerable rumble of stomachs as watching bashful eyes flit up from paperwork. Well out of all that.
+++++<\/span>Mrs. Wright hands me a cheque for services rendered before I go. Fucking ball ache man, but she always looks so proud to be handing it over, her liver-spotted, veiny hands shaking, shaming me into silence. So that\u2019s me heading into the precinct to cash this sucker at the bank. A smoke will have to wait another half hour, but I\u2019ll drop Noel on the way so he can have a rest from doing nothing.<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>I shuffle a step or two as the little people behind their glass windowed counters beckon punters forward. Bloody cheques. Bloody Mrs. Wright. Banks in the daytime are refuges of the damned, no one but pensioners and the destitute milling around. Clerks trying to look important. I hate it. It\u2019s always very bright in there. I\u2019m acutely aware of my sunglasses. Hands clenched into fists deep in my pockets. I should have sparked that spliff at home before I took this on.
+++++<\/span>I look at people, convinced they\u2019re staring at me. Do I look too shady? Do I look like a bank robber?
+++++<\/span>Shit.<\/i> Don\u2019t think that! As bad as thinking about bombs at the airport. Can they see into my mind? Do they know what I\u2019m thinking?
+++++<\/span>\u2018Next please,\u2019 comes a pleasant voice. The old fella in front of me shuffles forward.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Next please.\u2019 A few seconds later.
+++++<\/span>I slouch over looking at my feet, cuffing at my mouth and drawing spit across my tongue in what turned out to be a far too loud, self-loathing act. Now they\u2019re looking.
+++++<\/span>\u2018How can I help you sir?\u2019 I look up mumbling something about cashing a cheque and put it in the little dip in the counter.
+++++<\/span>\u2018I\u2019m sorry sir, can you say that again please?\u2019
+++++<\/span>I look up, wiping a stray tear from my eye away beneath my sunglasses. The twenty-something guy behind the glass is slouched in his chair, a look of cold appraisal in his slightly narrowed eyes. Not rude enough for comment, but just enough for you to know he sees<\/i> you, like he\u2019d see the shit on his shoe. He sits up straight now running a soft hand through his slick, gelled back hair. His name badge flashes in the light. \u2018Sebastian\u2019<\/i>. Yep, sounds about right. Prick.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Cash a cheque please,\u2019 I say, even though my requirement is perfectly obvious. A small dabble of spit bubbles collects at the corner of my mouth and I breath it in quick sharp.
+++++<\/span>Plebastian notices and casts a sideways glance at his mate in the little window next to him. My face burns as I follow his gaze and a tight but hollow feeling swells in my chest before it sinks and stays somewhere just above my pancreas. I\u2019ve found bus-stop-girl.
+++++<\/span>She, busy with her own customer just widens her eyes a bit. Giving one of those grin-grimace things where your mouth gets bigger without actually smiling before resuming her patient conversation with a little old lady next to me who had been getting steadily more bamboozled by the chip-and-pin in front of her, her little blue savings book in hand.
+++++<\/span>It\u2019s a terrible thing, to have hope taken away from you. Losing my nerve at home in front of the window day after day I can kid myself. Nah, not the weather for it today\u2026. Nope, ganj-over, tomorrow though, deffo\u2026. No, tomorrow\u2019s the day, meant to be sunny\u2026 But when you\u2019re faced with it; the thing you want; the thing you fear; and it doesn\u2019t go anything like you imagined it, well, it throws you. All those tarts on Instagram talking about \u2018meet-cutes\u2019 or some rubbish, that\u2019s not happened now has it. Not now bus-stop-girl, breath-takingly-beautiful, intoxicating, blue eyed bus-stop-girl has seen me dribbling and crying, trying to cash a twenty-pound check. She\u2019s seen the real me. The true Ryan Sinclair. Not nice, not chivalrous, not handsome or clean even.
+++++<\/span>Sebastian from the bank, I hope you fucking drop dead tomorrow.<\/p>\n
+++++<\/span>\u2018Good boy,\u2019 I say over and over again, mushing his cheeks and tickling his tummy. It\u2019s all coming up Ryan today man, I can feel it. I\u2019m groomed and respectable, no ripped and dirty gardening clothes here! The sun\u2019s even shining, so I don\u2019t need to feel like a tit in my fake (but very believable) Ray-Bans. Sound. Brushed my teeth without looking up, trying to avoid my face in case I bottle it.
+++++<\/span>Five-to. Now or never Mr. Sinclair.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Come on, Noel,\u2019 I say heading out the door. I snatch the bobble out of my hair as I close the door and obsessively stoke my beard. She\u2019s at the bus stop already and my heart flutters as I cross the road to where the number ten pulls up. She\u2019s standing away from the rest of the queue, that soft blonde hair glowing in the sun, blowing in the breeze.
+++++<\/span>I stand next to her, Noel at my heels, pretending to inspect the timetable on the bus shelter. Pretending not to notice her, I think of the bong sitting on the coffee table, lamenting the ridiculous decision to leave it alone this morning to quieten my fucked heart. She\u2019s looking at her phone, straight backed and elegant. I should bottle it, dash back home, or get on the bus in silence and hot-foot it off at the next stop.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Get a grip of yourself, man!\u2019 I mentally slap myself. I\u2019ve got this far. I steel myself. Keep it light. Keep it casual.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Oh, hey,\u2019 I say turning to her. \u2018Hey\u2019\u2026I hate myself. \u2018You work at the bank, yeah? Behind the counter?\u2019
+++++<\/span>She looks up, smiles and says \u2018hello\u2019, and \u2018that\u2019s right\u2019. Not exactly forthcoming though, not leaving much in the way of an opener. Beautiful smile though.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Yeah, I was in there yesterday,\u2019 I continue. \u2018Your mate cashed a cheque for me. Sorry about that\u2026cheques\u2026\u2019 I raise my eyebrows in exasperation. Or eyebrow at least. That must have looked weird. Fuck.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Don\u2019t worry about it,\u2019 she says with another smile. The kind of smile you give to a mental person at a bus stop who you want to go away.
+++++<\/span>\u2018I\u2019m a gardener, see. Some of the old\u2019uns prefer it, you know.\u2019 I\u2019m battling on. \u2018Ryan, by the way\u2026\u2019 I offer my hand.
+++++<\/span>She stands there, phone in hands looking blankly at me. \u2018And this is Noel,\u2019 I gesture, looking down to my right. Then to my left. A flash of panic bursts in my chest, I spin around, but he\u2019s nowhere. No sign of him in the road either.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Noel!\u2019 I call out. \u2018Did you see where my dog went?\u2019 I ask bus-stop-girl, my voice cracking.
+++++<\/span>\u2018No, I\u2019m sorry.\u2019 she says, sounding anything but sorry.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Did you see my dog mate?\u2019 I say to the bloke behind her, a dribble of spittle escaping from my mouth.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Nah mate,\u2019 he answers as the bus pulls up, he steps on. Kindness really is dead, isn\u2019t it.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Noel!\u2019 I shout again, over the hiss of the bus\u2019s brakes.
+++++<\/span>I\u2019m spinning round, manic like, eyes darting from one end of the street to the other, no sign of him anywhere.
+++++<\/span>\u2018I hope you find your dog.\u2019 says a small voice coming from behind me. I turn to see her stepping on to the bus, a quick guilty glance back as she taps the card reader and heads for a seat. Stuck up cow. A dashed dream and a dog down! Good, loyal Noel. My last friend.
+++++<\/span>The bus pulls away, and the smoke from the exhaust clouds and stings my eyes. Coughing and wiping them, I look over at the door to the flats, but Noel isn\u2019t there either. Maybe he\u2019s gone to the fields, I reason, it\u2019s the right time of day for it. So I leg it up the street towards the precinct, but I slow to a quick walk after a few paces, eyes darting in all directions, an errant tear running down my left cheek, but I forget my face for once and let it run, all traces of self-consciousness abated. Still scanning the road around me I pull out my phone, thinking I better draft in my Dad to help me look. I\u2019m cycling through my contacts, getting to his number as I round the corner of the street. Pressing \u2018call\u2019, I lift my phone to my ear and look up. I stop dead, mouth agape.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Hullo?\u2019 my Dad answers the phone. \u2018\u2026Ryan, what is it man?\u2019
+++++<\/span>I pause, transfixed. \u2018Nothing, Dad. Sorry. Speak later.\u2019
+++++<\/span>\u2018For God\u2019s sake, man! Ye worried us, I\u2019m trying to have a shite here for fucks sa\u2026\u2019 I don\u2019t hear the rest, I slowly lower my phone and hang up the call.
+++++<\/span>There in front of me, a few yards down the street is Noel flat on his back, paws in the air.
+++++<\/span>Wriggling and writhing, enjoying a tummy-tickle from the most beautiful girl I\u2019d ever seen. She\u2019s crouched down over him, long dark hair \u2013 a bit wild looking, blowing in the wind and big white smile plastered across her face, accentuating her cheekbones.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Noel!\u2019 I bark sidling up to them both.
+++++<\/span>She looks up and then stands, still smiling. \u2018This your dog?\u2019
+++++<\/span>\u2018Yeah.\u2019 I say, stroking my beard compulsively. \u2018He is.\u2019 Noel gets up and wanders over to me, smug and lazy.
+++++<\/span>The girl folds her arms and watches as I bend down to fuss his flank, in a half relieved, half exasperated way.
+++++<\/span>\u2018Noel?\u2019 she asks (Noel looks up.) \u2018Oasis fan?\u2019
+++++<\/span>\u2018Yeah,\u2019 I say again, half-smiling and stroking my beard even more, conscious as ever of my face.
+++++<\/span>\u2018A dog person and an Oasis fan. You might well be my new favourite person.\u2019
+++++<\/span>\u2018Thank you,\u2019 I say. God, that sounds lame. \u2018You know, for finding him, like.\u2019
+++++<\/span>\u2018I think he found me, to be honest, but no problem. Is it worth a drink or what?\u2019
+++++<\/span>\u2018I\u2019m not really drinking that much at the minute to be honest.\u2019
+++++<\/span>What! Why did I say that! What a tit.
+++++<\/span>She raises an eyebrow.
+++++<\/span>\u2018I can still, you know, drink coffee and stuff,\u2019 I garble. \u2018I\u2019ll show you if you want?\u2019 I flick my chin behind her towards the caf.
+++++<\/span>She turns to look behind her and then looks back at me, a smile in the corner of her mouth as she tucks a long lock of that wild hair behind her ear. \u2018Yeah, go on then.\u2019 she says turning and heading towards the caf\u00e9.
+++++<\/span>I bend down to give Noel a quick pat on his side. \u2018Good dog,\u2019 I say. Smiling.<\/p>\n![\"Facebook\"](\"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-content\/plugins\/social-media-feather\/synved-social\/image\/social\/regular\/48x48\/facebook.png\"\/ "\\"Share")
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\n\t\t<\/div>\n
\n
\nHe now has slightly more time to write something down when the Wolves aren\u2019t on the TV. He likes the pub, flawed characters with dark senses of humour, and the sixties. He dislikes getting run over.<\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\n\t\t<\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n