Commonword Blogs

Something she did to pass the time, between the phone calls and the boredom and the neat stack of bills piled on the floor. She tidied up the nail clippings and switched off the television. The fridge buzzed. The same heavy duty buzz the electric fly trap at the butcher's makes. He said it’s UV, has the same effect as staring at your piss in a nightclub toilet. So the heroin addicts can’t see their veins. She put the nail clippings in an envelope marked tuusday in green felt tip pen. Then she got up to draw the curtains. Standing at the bus stop below her was the handsomest man. At any moment he’d look up, into her eyes and they’d be in love. At any moment until the bus came. He got on, emerged on the upper deck, looked across. They were almost at eye level, their gaze met. He pulled a gun and shot himself in the head.
After the bus had gone she reported the incident to the police. They said they’d investigate. While she waited for them to knock on her door she opened a tin of cat food and gave half to her cat. She collected the cat hairs and put them in a re-sealable plastic bag. In her journal she wrote:

He kylled himself agen today, with a gun. A stryng of perls snapped in a vylent game of love.

She ignored the strange cat on the windowsill, watching her, calling her name. It had orange, curly eyes. She took out the tin of baked beans from the fridge. Fried some dried chillies in butter. Told me to leave.