Takeaway Food

The lovers are out there scraping hearts into the frost on some poor bastard’s windscreen, their breath fogging up the glass like cheap sex in a doorway. Rain drizzles down, soft and useless, on rows of scooters hunched in the alley, seats glazed with ice, waiting for some fool to come along and chip it off with a credit card that’s already maxed out.

Frozen cars, frozen people, frozen love—same shit, different decade.

Me, I’m leaning against a lamppost in Brewer Street, cigarette dying between my fingers, watching the whole circus stagger past. Couple of hours ago I was parked at The Dog and Duck, swallowing warm rum and stale lies, and now I’ve got a greasy paper bag swinging from my fist—sweet-and-sour pork bleeding through the bottom, straight from one of those neon holes in Soho that smell like bleach and regret.

For a change,
Everything’s always for a goddamn change.