The Number 112
Hey there, big fella. Come, have a seat. My clenched forehead, tightly folded arms and determined stare out the tram window shouldn’t be taken as signs I want to be left alone. They’re in fact an open invitation to collapse next to me and let out a low groan in my ear. No, I don’t need much space, do take more. Speak, please. Roar at the top of your gravelly voice. I want nothing more than to hear about your latest ailment/run-in/conspiracy theory. Your hot, gin-soaked breath on my neck is a delight to me; your encrusted body odour a treat to the nasal passages. I love the way your spittle lands on my cheek as you lean ever closer. I love the way you throw your head back, slap your knees and launch into a tune - evidently self-composed and with such an unusual approach to pitch. Hey, I’ve as much middle-class guilt as the next frightened commuter. Now go on, scratch your balls and pass out on my shoulder.