The Camel

Christmas again, Jesus, another one. London’ East End. Her heels stab the wet pavement like they’re trying to kill it, clack-clack, clack-clack, some secretary’s last fuck-you to the day. Everybody running for the Underground or the pub, same difference: heat, noise, cheap beer that tastes like rust and lament. Peanuts in cloudy glasses, napkins soaked