“I’m no master of women,” he heard. Then he spat into the rainwater gully, through the mucky night, and watched, through a charity shop window, a fat woman sell the suit of a dead, old man under yolky light. Such a gent, maybe they said. Evil, little man…possibly.
In any case, the smell of the suit needs to laboured description. If you’ve never smelt it, good for you. It’s the smell of your clothes when you’re gone. It’s sitting around in them and waiting to die; wondering what it will be like and maybe even welcoming it. A release.
“Don’t ask me.” He watched his lips in the reflection, though he made no sound and was not about to.
A statue of a fat woman stared away from the city in disgust. He decided he’d like to buy her a drink. But she was old and cold and dead and covered with pigeon shit.
Beneath his feet was a circular frame in the paving. It creaked and, slowly lifted him from the surface of the street. He huddled into a ball and let the rain and the sun come down upon him and around him. The odd, faint smell of urine was all that interrupted what was an otherwise effortless sink into pneumonia and, thankfully, hospital.
Where he was sure someone would visit.
“I’m no master of women,” he heard one last time.