It is her hair Skunk notices first, the movement of
colour as she navigates the bookshop’s few other customers and heads directly
towards him.
ache1: Let’s go.
Brother Skunk looks aside from her and back, placing
both palms flat upon the air before him.
Skunk: Working?
ache1: Ask if they’ll let you go now.
Skunk: I’ve got
ache1: Now, now for Christ’s sake.
He know if he promises his boss to make the time
back this might actually happen, ache1 is not unwelcome in the shop.
Skunk: What time is
it now?
which she meets with an exaggerated drag at her sleeve,
exposing the bare wrist, flicking at it with her fingers before grabbing up a ballpoint
pen from the adjacent worktop and quickly executing the crude analogue of a
watch and strap directly onto her skin,
ache1: There, 5.30 pm,
holding the scribbled ink dial up to his face,
ache1: you’re done.
