One a day: Delayed

I have done it again. I have deleted the picture that I took for this story. Basically, it was a bottle of Cherry Vimto on a train station platform.


“Fucking bus!” Her warm breath smells like Cherry Vimto and fags. “The lazy twats. Just fancied a lie in. I bet that’s it.” I admire this girl’s honesty and straight talking. It isn’t false, like the My Space Emo lasses I normally find myself with, with those god awful blonde or black or blue hair extensions and clean skateboards under their ‘scarred’ arms.

“Does this normally happen when it snows? The busses just conk out?” She looks at me as if to say ‘you fucking thick or something?’ “I’m new around here,” I say.

“Yeah, I can tell. Usually happens when there’s a piss poor amount of snow, yeah. My nephew is three and could ride his bike through it no probs. Them lazy bus driver cunts just couldn’t be arsed.” I try and look at her without catching her eye. I wait until she is re-adjusting the headphone in her left ear. Her tracksuit is a pink splash against the cotton white of the snow. I notice the logo, running down the outer seam of her trousers and jacket, a man and woman sat back to back as if they’re just had a massive fight. She must be baltic in that.

“Did a good job of avoiding the slush.” I nod at her spotless Nike Air Max trainers. She shrugs and pulls out her headphone. The music streams out and fills the bus stop. It’s nasty. A hamster on speed or something similar, but its cut short.

“Why you talking to me anyway, you’re a mosher. It isn’t normal.”

“Haven’t been called that in yonks.”

“Haven’t heard yonks in years,” she says. She’s cute. I imagine her with her tight pony tail loose and her gorgeous, long fingers tracing my spine.

“Fancy a drink,” I say, as she’s putting her headphone back in. I’m afraid it’s going to mark the end of the conversation, and I don’t want it too. I don’t want the bus to come now, sod the job interview.


“A drink. Fancy one? I don’t reckon the bus is going to come.” She smiles and has the most amazing teeth.

“Okay. I need some nosh anyway. I know this place we can go.” As we walk, she manages to avoid the dirty slush. I notice our bus passing but don’t say anything. I think she noticed it too.

Sandy’s Cafe is thick with grease. The smell of black pudding and fried eggs that have been burnt to the pan hangs in the air. Tables are thick with boobs and bad spelling, spilt salt and cup rings. The counter is heaving with baskets of chocolate bars and crisps, empty mugs and cut price muffins.

“Hiya Kell, fried egg sandwich today is it?” Shit. I haven’t even asked her her name!

“Yeah Angie, and a slice of bacon please. What do you want?” She asks me.

“It’s cool, thanks. I have cash.” I order a cuppa and toast. We sit down and I try and concentrate on spreading my butter, but she’s eating as though I’m not even there. I’ve never seen a girl enjoying food so much. She must have an incredible metabolism. “So, its Kelly then?” She wipes a dribble of egg yolk off her chin with a rough looking napkin.


“I’m Ned.” She laughs then clamps a hand over her mouth. “It’s okay. I was named after my Granddad.” She pours at least three teaspoons of sugar into her tea and stirs it one way, then the other.

“I’m not a freak,” she says quickly. “Me mam taught me how to do tea.” Her honey skin is glowing. I want to kiss her. I wonder what it would be like; kissing a mouth that doesn’t clang with metal. The sun has started to leak through the poster clad windows, advertising local diet clubs, buggies for sale and window washers. “What did you have to go to today?” She wipes up the last of the egg yolk off the plate with her finger and puts her finger in her mouth.

“Fuck. Bollocks.”

“So I’m not the only one with a foul mouth then!” Suddenly, the job interview doesn’t seem all that important anymore.