‘…so sneering, so…so fucking arrogant-you know, the way you look down on people.’
And this, the second time she had met me, from a one line quip I am this new man before her. I hate the world and all the little people in it-I hate the domesticity of the working man’s life-I hate the fucking poor and their double chins, their inability to tan evenly.
‘That’s not what I said…you don’t know me, you don’t even know my last name.’
The words wafted past her, only stroking her indignation as they briefly orbited.
I think I used the word ‘provenance’ the first time we met. From this she had deduced that I was a vicar. I clearly had never been hungry, poor or out of work.
I left shortly afterwards, her hand still attached to the outer handle of the passenger door of my car as I sped away. I made it to the main road before my phone started ringing in my pocket. It still rang when I opened my front door and sat at my kitchen table.
After two days silence, a text message apologised for being ‘abrasive’. People who use ‘abrasive’ to describe themselves always seem to do so from a great solitude, often surrounding themselves with a silent menagerie to confide in.
I hate the poor she had said. I took another slug from my Asda Smart Price Scotch and nearly laughed.
