Thirty Days Of Julia: Day Eight

Her ex was a wolf in sheepskin clothing,
knuckles dusted with sovereigns, razor-
rashed neck adorned with more medallions
than an Olympic champion. Oi, John!
he grunted, voice greasy as a breakfast
rasher. Watch this one, she'll have your bollocks
for bookends. Cunt, was all I could muster
in retort. Cunt. But the word stuck to my
tongue like an errant pube. That he had touched
her with pork sausage fingers, ogled her
with fried egg eyes blobbed with ketchup, while I
stood open-mouthed and starving, pale as milk,
sour as out-of-date yoghurt, was more than
my stomach could stand. A dish served lukewarm.