I noticed him at the traffic lights in Portobello. It was the little bag of jelly babies that caught my eye - everything else about him was cigarette coloured. His slicked-back hair made me wipe my hands in my skirt, greasy just at the thoughts of touching it. He wore jet-black jeans in that slim fit favoured by cats of his vintage, with black loafers and a beige bomber jacket. The fag hanging from his mouth set his tone. He was the kind of ratty-faced louche I'd avoid at a bar. He looked like he might hit on you.
She had a crown of curls; thick brown ringlets that made me want to bury my fingers in her hair, that made me want to bury my nose in it to see how it smelled. She had a friendly, open face and a gloriously round, full arse. It was a pleasure to follow her up the path. She took his hand in hers and he was transformed. I was transfixed. I followed them to Charlemont Bridge. They left for the Luas, I took a seat on the canal bench. To capture their moment.
As I sat scribbling in my notebook, I saw a kid coming my way. He was wearing an emerald green tracksuit, and had ding-a-ling ginger hair. His freckles had been pencilled in, and the rosy bloom in his cheeks made him look like he'd been sketched in technicolour. The city seemed drab by comparison. Writing faster now in an effort to draw him in nouns and adjectives without losing sight of my odd couple, my script turned to scrawl. I laughed.
Go home, Rosie, you fucking weirdo.
She had a crown of curls; thick brown ringlets that made me want to bury my fingers in her hair, that made me want to bury my nose in it to see how it smelled. She had a friendly, open face and a gloriously round, full arse. It was a pleasure to follow her up the path. She took his hand in hers and he was transformed. I was transfixed. I followed them to Charlemont Bridge. They left for the Luas, I took a seat on the canal bench. To capture their moment.
As I sat scribbling in my notebook, I saw a kid coming my way. He was wearing an emerald green tracksuit, and had ding-a-ling ginger hair. His freckles had been pencilled in, and the rosy bloom in his cheeks made him look like he'd been sketched in technicolour. The city seemed drab by comparison. Writing faster now in an effort to draw him in nouns and adjectives without losing sight of my odd couple, my script turned to scrawl. I laughed.
Go home, Rosie, you fucking weirdo.
