I sit outside a coffee shop, watching London.
A couple walks by. The boy is tall, with a weird jawline. Her pants are gold.
“How much you get paid to wear that!?” a voice cries.
Across the street, a band of drunk well-dressed men stumble along.
“Hey! Bitch! I said how much you get paid to wear that?!” The man in a newsies cap, part of the gang, calls again.
The boy walking along beside the girl turns.
“Fuck off would you,” he says, not slowing down.
One of the drunk guys turns. He reminds me, wholeheartedly, of dog food.
“Fuck you,” he says. But, the boy and the funky-panted girl have walked on.
One of the men turns to another
“You see that!” he says, “he said how much you get paid to wear that and that boy just said fuck you.”
All the men stumble to a halt right beside where I sit.
They look back at the couple, now in the distance.
“We going to let that happen?” One of them says, looking around at the others. Three are nodding. Two are holding each other up, another starts walking on. A car nearly hits him.
“You bitch!” He yells at the car as it drives by. His companions look after him. They follow.
“You see that! That bitch almost hit me!” He cries, still in the road. A couple of them flip off the bend where the car had gone round. They laugh and stumble on.
To my right, a woman sits, reading her book.