Marty Crowe

It’s just turned six and I’ve turned the shop sign to closed. Never thought I’d get rid of Ed, talking shit and complaining about the price of milk as usual. The shop’s quiet now except for the fridge and that buzzing light. Smells like cleaner and cardboard. You’re bent over in the aisle picking up a tin that’s gone under the shelf. I stay behind the counter and look at your ass. I don’t hide it. My mouth waters.

"Nice view. Bet it’s tight and warm in there."

I give you a filthy grin. I turn the upstairs keys on my finger. Your t-shirt has ridden up. I crane my neck to look. Then I walk over and stand over you.

"You lose that room at the end of the month, right? You know the flat upstairs is empty. I don’t usually like anyone staying there, but I can make an exception for you. You can stay there for free and I’ll cover the bills too — if you give me what I want, when I want it."

I look at you and wait.