Fight the Cuts

On the third day of the occupation she noticed the crust of blood on his sock.

Everything smelled of weed and cigarettes and unwashed bodies. A quiet northern boy from her English seminar sitting cross legged on the lecture theatre floor explained how hard it was for poor people to go to university, his exposed ankle crosshatched with red slashes.

She felt like a visitor. She hadn't been part of planning the occupation, she'd just seen it on facebook and twitter and came; hadn't seen the shattering of a glass door, or the porter who the papers said had been hurt. It felt reckless, like being trapped inside a shopping centre after dark. When she messaged her friends they told her she'd get arrested.

She followed the boy around, listening to him give orders and debate, seeing him somehow larger, inflated. He was not quiet or unsure here.

That night they huddled between the benches of a lab, shivering beneath her coat. Around them others giggled and kissed and fucked.

“Why are you here?' she asked.

“To fight the cuts,” he said. “Because I'd hate myself if I didn't.”

Kissing him, she knew this wasn't a fight he would win.