Good Boy

I hurt my foot. The way I did it was strange, as it always seems to be, never meaning to do it intentionally. I was hoovering the flat and got it caught in a gap between the carpet and door. As I turned away to free it, the door scraped along the edge of the foot. The pain was instant. And I was ready to give in to it. Then I decided that I wasn’t going to. I decided that there was no pain and that I never trapped my foot under the door. The pain was still there but it stayed in my foot, never making its way up my body into my head.

Then I ate a ginger snap. It was rock hard, then melted delightfully; small grains of salt added a rich, textural dimension. The heating was off. The flat was getting cold. It echoed the faint sounds of my feet shuffling, of the cigarette packet opening, of my keys tinkling together.

I stood outside and lit the cigarette. A taxi drove past. Its engine made a strange, electric whine. It sounded like a taxi from a sci-fi film, I imagined. Then the street was quiet. I looked out across the channel at the city lights. Wondered what people were up to over there. Whether they could see any lights over on this side or whether this town was too small to be noticed and maybe they didn’t care anyway. I inhaled a drag and hiccupped. Freak occurrence. Then it happened again.

I put the cigarette out in the car. In the future, we can’t put cigarettes out in the street without being seen as criminals. So I put it out in my car. I salute the street camera and it whirrs in my direction. I hope that the ‘powers-that-be’ take good notice of my exemplary citizenship.

Then it starts to rain a bit. Then it rains a lot.

Then I go back indoors; limping, but not caring.

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