Ok. I’m laying here, on Tracy’s bed, staring at her nicotine-stained artex ceiling. I can hear her humming to herself, rummaging about in the bathroom next door. Any moment now, she’ll strut into the room, smelling fresh and swaying her ample hips in something silky. To tell the truth, I’m dreading it. Absolutely dreading it.

You see, Tracy’s my girlfriend. I’d tell you how long for, but the thought of it depresses me. Suffice to say, at the moment I’m counting it in Balham United managers. We’ve been together for three of the bastards, not including the 2-week caretaker last October, which makes four. I’m leaving her at five.
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Carol, the copper-haired social worker, seemed unaware that the pint-sized client in her passenger seat was paying absolutely no attention to the philosophical ramblings she had been saving since lunch. As the Velcro-haired boy stared out of the window of her scarlet Suzuki jeep, frozen in thought, memories were bursting in his mind like supernovas, highlighting the times that were, and the retreating moments that would no longer be. Again, he was being moved – or in their phraseology, “relocated” – and again he prepared himself for a new life in which his nostalgia would not be mutually recalled by anyone else, ever.
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Her sweet smell had saturated his sinuses; stifling his concentration with a rush of testosterone. Deep, but as subtle as fresh air itself, the aroma was giving life to his tired body. Spinning his head, wide-eyed like a juvenile owl, he surveyed the emptying tube carriage, searching for the source. Not yet composed, he acted primal. Like a bloodhound; taking another breath and absorbing the scent that the other passengers seemed to be oblivious to, but that made him salivate.
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I was browsing through one of Remi’s sidelinks when something caught my eye. On the Nigeria-based eSquash site, there was a concept design competition, with 4 topics/themes to follow. Due to several conversations, things i’ve read and general introspection: Why males die younger, stuck out and captured my attention. Then while i was walking in Alperton the other day i jotted the following story down as a start to my exploration of the topic:
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Jean’s breathing now felt like he was inhaling glass. In the moonlit forest, he lay motionless with a steady flow of venal blood trickling from his mouth. The branch impaling him through the left shoulder like a chunk of lamb had broken itself off from a large tree in the blast. A wispy, dissipating fog encircled him, disorientating an already dazed mind with aromas of smoked pork and tricks of the light. The fallen soldier had to get on the move now. Jean was all too aware of the consequences of being found semi-conscious by the enemy. Especially when his team had just downed one of their Enstrom helicopters.
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Penniless and unbeknown to most, Ruben walked; and with each step he reminisced. Plunging his hands into his blazer pockets, his fingers rolled the lint, together with the remnant crumbs from an exploding pack of crisps encountered a week prior. His left shoe squeaked melodically contrasting with his metronomic plodding.
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“Oi!”

My head spun around to find the girl’s voice, but confusion set in, as my eyes fleetingly caught the owner ducking out of sight. Smirking, I ran onto Rob’s pass, deftly stepping-over it twice. I’d learnt this trick only recently, out of a book borrowed once, and never returned.

With my leatherless ball, I’d pretend to be a short Argentinean. Wishing I was in Wembley; vividly imagining that I was on its grass instead of the tarmac runway of Moorside Road. Trapping the ball, I’d visualize a place in which I could slide tackle without being grazed, and practise my scissor-kicks relentlessly.

“Oi!”

Pirouetting on the Mitre Delta, I caught the voice off-guard, flicking the ball into my right arm and using my left hand as an impromptu sun-visor. Looking down the bowling alley of a road, I saw a mane of hair peeking over the hut thingy-ma-bob, next to the shortcut I ran past every morning, in my sprint for the 692.

“What?” I shouted with bravado.

“Come here.”

I looked around, feigning modesty I suppose.

“Me?”

“Yeah!”

“Me? What for?”

I paused for the reply in vain - as the head disappeared from sight - then coolly threw the ball up and headed it on to Rob.

Starting off down the road, I composed myself, trying to remember what people in movies do.