Alex
The old man squeezes my hand firmly, threatens me, and tells me he’ll see me inside before going into the Plum house, carrying a plastic bag from Bev-Mo. Probably his wife’s Pinot-Grigio. And he just flicked his ciggy on the street without putting it out. Wanker. And a bloody litterer.
I finish my own fag and pinch it dead before sticking it into my trouser pocket. I also stomp on Davenport’s ciggy and pocket it. I cannot abide littering. It’s just a pet peeve of mine. My parents tell me I was a neat-freak even as a boy and got upset with my classmates, who didn’t properly clean up after themselves.
If Melody were a bit of a slob, I think I’d be okay with it. I’d clean up her mess, too. She thought I was joking when I told her this, but I’m really not.
I scrape my shoes on the out
