Crawling in the city. City people everywhere. City people in their finest. Saturday night. Boozy, scoring music night. Steve hung close to property, looking up into the enclave of the thief. Tightening his pockets. He felt cool. Three black pieces, 1 white open collar shirt, 8 legs. Tie-less not tied down. Looking out towards the kerb he considered his competition. The city lights weren’t so bright. Many bulbs had blown reflecting back the image of the people who were now like a swarm. No, not a swarm. A troop. A troop of termites. Terrifying in their movement, their social interaction. Looking for food, drink, sex, music, good times. Good times in the pocket of the bad. Vomit paved the pavement. All that washing, ironing, pressing times. Lost in the swirl of the vibe that was Saturday.
Stella felt older. Unloved. The conqueror sat in the dark spinning. Her parlour felt empty. She felt a tremor of anxiety. Looking into the mirror she considered her face, her red sucking lips. She felt a hole in the pit of her stomach. Love. Loves. Love lost. Age related lines. Queues of paramours no longer stretched beyond her door. The heat conspired. Loss of love. Out of season. Rabbits in the ditch. The stars would turn for a world consciously lost in turning. Everything comes round again. A part of her cerebral cortex still pronounced his name. She was getting used to hearing it less often. Maybe his name in time would be lost too. In the meantime time to find a new time. Saturdays had to be better than this.