a.funnytimeofyear.com

“There’s this lady that I see, but she doesn’t see me. Today she wore high heels and short black trousers. She must be going some place nice, I thought. She puts her phone to the ear, so close that you can see the tumours growing – the thick bubbles of bodily tissue forming under her skin, latching on to her brain. Her face is a pale shade of white like a Geisha girl, except she doesn’t have the seductive, chic element of an oriental girl. Her eyes stand boldly like GM goldfish. The white of her eyes are tainted by erupting vessels tearing down the holy white like nails on a blackboard. They bulge and move around in their sockets, embarking on a jaunt into optical space. The eyes dart around inside a cage, jiggling for freedom. There’s this lady that I see, but she doesn’t see me.

“She stood on the corner, legs wide open just like her mouth. The heels are thick, black and dirty with the colour of mud on the base. She clicks them together and then spreads them apart for her audience. Her mouth is always open, apart from when she’s smoking. She takes long drags on her cheap cigarettes. Her eyes always shoot down to her nose and further, watching the lighthouse’s bulb grown brighter. The way she exhales the smoke is far from elegant as she blows it towards her feet, the earth, with her top lip masquerading its undercarriage. Her eyes – they won’t stop moving. The vessels erupt again. She has volcanic eyes. There’s this lady that I see, but she doesn’t see me.

“She’s walking up and down the bus station as if it were her kitchen. People bump into her constantly and a large black lady dappled in gold mutters bitch as she passes by my lady, elegance and all. This lady that I see has yellow teeth. She shows them off now and again when she’s talking on the phone – gritting them together, raising her lips and glaring at strangers. She’s wearing black today but last time it was rainbow pink. She’s shouting to her phone like a parent to a disobedient child. Fuck you, she screeches outside a charity shop. Its staff swivel their head and she growls back at them. I don’t give a shit, she cries, they took my baby and I want her back. There’s this lady that I see, but she doesn’t see me.

“Her cheeks are sallow and her face is gaunt. I notice her legs are as thin as sticks, her arms too. The skin on her cheeks alternates between white and yellow in the dreary English sun, and I tell myself that either way, she still doesn’t look much better. Her cheeks have such little skin that I expect they’ll poke right through any day. She’s pacing the bus station with this phone to her ear, and really, she’s all anyone can hear. When she speaks she does it with force. A bold F resonates in her stomach whilst the UCK clucks our into the air. She’s a picture of alliteration but slightly less poetic as she coos to her caller through radiowaves. She never cries, just screams, and I wonder where her baby is. Skinny legs, boney hands, crack addict they say, the women waiting for my bus. Please, she begs, I have to see my baby. Everyone is watching, all eyes on hers. Her volcano erupts, bleeding onto the sidewalk.

There’s this lady that I see, but she never sees me.”