Sticky

Marz and Danny are as thick as toffee. It makes me ill to go out and leave the pair of them knowing what I’ll find when I get back. Danny doesn’t say much – neither of them does come to that – but it’s as if she’s his best friend or his sister or something, even tho she’s a good fifteen years older than him. I hate her. I don’t think Danny has been out since I brought him home, but she must have been buying food cos they were eating fish and chips when I got home. Fish is good – those omega oils – are they in white fish? I can’t remember. Afterwards she got all slappered up in her tight black skirt and silver top and went out on the pull and I sat down next to Danny on the settee.

I tried to be careful as I didn’t want to annoy him or scare him off.

‘What now, Danny,’ I said, and he looked at me with those black eyes of his, head on one side and the light from the lamp shining through his hair.

‘Chill out,’ was all he said. I’m not whether he meant I should or he was going to, but I didn’t ask just in case, tho he seemed pretty relaxed. I looked at his hand resting on his knee, wanted to touch those long fingers, slide my hand underneath them, but I didn’t. Went and made us some coffee instead. When I got back he was asleep so I covered him with the blanket and went to bed. I lay in bed with the poor little brain chasing its tail, not a chance of sleeping, so I got up and here I am. Another day wrapping tomorrow. I like it tho – all those shiny papers and ribbons, taking care with measuring, making a good job of it. One man gave me a quid tip, said I was a artist. Having to concentrate is restful – no time to think of other things – yet I’m always tired at six when the shop shuts.

Maybe I’ll read in bed till I hear Marz come in.