Observations Pt 1

There is a sentiment in the air. It's a little thing with a moue, fleeting and flitting in between the frequencies that buzz around the souls involved in this particular evening's eventualities. They may or may not be aware of it.

There is one. She is not from his class. She is close though, as her dad made good on his maxim of ‘hard work pays’. It didn’t pay enough for her to roll with his crowd so he makes sure they are always alone. She knows of his friends and they of her but they have never, will never meet. It hasn't occurred to her that she is second or third best. She is a token. But the restaurant and the club they will visit later make up for all that is not thought about.

 In that grassy patch near the bus stop, the man with the big red, white and blue jacket waits on his big blue motorcycle. It is a Yamaha, the best bike ever made, according to jacket man. He does look impressive, if you are the target market. A member of his demographic is right now hurriedly serving tea to her employer so that she can dash out of the apartment block to meet him. He unzips his jacket as he waits, seated on the bike with its huge carrier box that says G4S. He calls his wife, tells her he will be half an hour late as he still has deliveries to make. The traffic is apparently thick. 

There is so much disinformation. So many lies. But they aren't lies until they are found out. They are the impressions made. How long they last.

They walk hand in hand in the crowded city street. It's harder than it sounds as the jostling crowds necessitate disengagement of the hold many times. Getting her hand back is becoming annoying; there are too many people in the way and all the time. But they are a couple, thus she spake, and couples hold fucking hands.  

Walk away now before the raging infection catches. Take your prophylactics and lie in bed. Hide. Hide from the bullshit that lives within you, holds you to itself and eventually carries you with it down a torrent of regretful waters.