Out of Context

The first itch is nothing. Anybody who has gone a few days without shaving their respective hairy parts knows about the first itch.

Nobody told me about the second itch.

James was perturbed. At least that’s how he’d have described himself, if he could be bothered to think about his state of mind.

A freshly rolled joint bounced between his lips as he patted his pockets and cursed to himself. It took a good three minutes before he gave in, acknowledging that he’d forgotten to pack his lighter.

‘Well, shit’ he muttered, tucking his prize back into his jacket pocket and beginning the long trek back to his apartment on the other side of town.

Here lies Phillipé, trainee clown.
Not out with a smile, but a scream and a frown.

There’s a trendy cafe along a street where the alfresco seating is always well occupied. The muted hum of general conversation is broken only by short bursts of laughter.

One of the concrete slabs forming the pathway outside has lifted and created a lip. A businessman passes by, noting the specials on the blackboard menu. The toe of his right Florsheim catches the protruding edge and his briefcase is sent skittering up the street while he crashes to the pavement.

The hum quiets and the patrons all turn their heads to look at the fallen man. “Thirteen” they state in unison, as a matter of fact, before returning to their coffees…

It was a cool morning, even for mid April.

He looked deep into her eyes and smiled softly.

‘I’ve never felt this way before’, he began, ‘like I’m so full of I-don’t-know-what, just bubbling inside of me and aching to come out… I love y-‘ *BLAAAARP* he belched loudly just as he had moved in for their first kiss. The odour of a mishmash of seafood, ginger beer and Nutella cronut enshrouded them.

‘Fucking paella’ she managed, before spinning around to face the kitchen sink, doubling over and swiftly bringing up her scrambled eggs and instant coffee.