Feral boys what I have f******d


Sometimes, a story title comes without a story attached, but the title is so good, it seems wasteful not to use it, so the title sits on the back burner, occasionally stirred a bit and then something, anything comes together.

This is not a love story, this is not even a lust story, this is not any kind of story at all.

Take 1

His inexpert scrabbling in your bag wakes you and when he realizes that you are watching him through half closed eyes, face propped up into an approximation of alertness, he ducks his head, smiles and shrugs.
Stepping away from the bed, he locates his boots and retreats backwards towards the door, clutching the boots to his chest.

Take 2

He hid a gun in your microwave and although you liked the feeling of living at the edge, the inconvenience of not being able to heat tomato soup or zap potatoes got to you and finally, employing a logic that only occurs when you and everyone you know is doing a lot of cocaine, you wrapped the gun in layer upon layer of kitchen roll and dropped the package behind the washing machine.

Take 3

In the days before text messaging and booty calls, at 3, 4 am, he would scratch and scrape at your door, like the over-sized tom cat that he was. Stomping downstairs, body stiff with resentment and cold, it always seemed to be winter then, face still soft from sleep, you would vow to send him away this time.
And each time, his under-dressed body, shoulder blades sharp as vestigial wings, each rib delineated under an off black t-shirt beguiled you and you opened the door, wondering if there was enough milk for tea.

Take 4

You face each-other on the pillow, his mascara is smudged, eye liner slipped towards his cheek bones, There is a pause while you both take stock of where the evening has brought you.
You close your eyes, feign sleep, hope that when you open them again he will be gone and then wonder where exactly you are and if instead it should be you who is going somewhere.
When you open them again, he is still there, quietly looking at you, you smile, hoping your face is less ruined than his and he smiles back.

Take 5

He enjoys taking you to clubs where he knows everyone and sometimes you dance together, but more usually, you dance and he watches, while people approach him and move away 2, 3 minutes later, nodding, smiling.
You pretend not to notice.
Sometimes he vanishes for hours and suddenly -re-appears, puffed up with self importance.
You pretend not to notice.
And there are the women, always in the back of the car, never the front, that is where you sit.
He converses with them in angry whispers and no-one looks at you.
You pretend not to notice.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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