There’s a small old guy who sells the big issue at my tube station… he must be about 60, grey-ish beard, he wears a black pea coat which should belong to an eleven year-old’s school uniform. I swipe my oyster on the reader and walk through the barrier towards the darkness and silent snowfall outside. He shuffles forward slightly as I walk.
‘Biiii shooo?’ he asks, grazing my left side.
I’m nonchalant. Gutted at some news I received two hours earlier, eyes dulling as the life drains out. I know what’s coming next, it’s the same each time. The same wheezing laugh, the hand clutching mine, the child eyes sparkling….
‘A-ny kis-ses?’
I laugh – just like I’ve laughed four hundred and seventy-three times before at the same two words – but today I’m faking it.
‘Not today!’ I sing. My intonation Bridget Jones-like.
He releases my hand and his eyes turn to watch as the station turns into the pavement and I am gone.
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