Alright, love, you take care now, she says, cutting the stocky man off, mid-sentence. She tries to usher him away from the counter, as she finally stops itching, tapping her hand on her bare arm as she does.  

Tap, tap, tap, three times in quick succession; in a 'there-there' self-comforting fashion.  Her hand rising to her face, twisting inwards towards her so she can glance at her nails, before, in a continuous motion, she quickly smooths back her black-greying greasy hair over her ears and then wipes her hand down by her side, where it falls, drawing an end to the proceedings.

Times up fella, move along now, she seems to be saying, as she arches her back slightly, puffing her chest out.     

The eyes of the shopkeeper meet mine. The stocky man walks away, change in hand, and I look downwards at the grey and green vinyl floor, looking at nothing in particular, as I count to five, before looking back up again.

A ten-pound note finally gets thrust into his wallet. Some of his change from the four cans of Carling. But as he begins to walk away, he stops to smooth out a creased corner of the note, pulling it out again, smoothing it between his fingers, and then slipping it back in again. His focus turns then to the coins in his palm. Unclenching his fist to stare at them, but logic, reason, or the ability to count has momentarily left him, and his lower lip protrudes in thought. His eyebrows rising hopefully, as he wobbles slightly. Ah, he’s pissed, I think. His head hanging downwards like a puppet that’s had a few strings cut, towards the flat of his held out palm, before he finally gives up and thrusts the coins into the pocket of his grey sweatpants.

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