What have you got there?
Record, LP.
Nima looks at me.
Which one?
Ornette Coleman.
I show her
the record sleeve:
three men standing
in snow.
She nods,
loses interest,
looks away.
Pigeons make noises
about us;
people pass by.
We're in Trafalgar Square.
How are you?
I ask,
sitting on the low wall
around the fountain.
*** starved,
need a fix
and a smoke,
she says.
I can give you
a smoke.
She sits beside me.
There is the sound
of water
from the fountain
behind us;
chat of others
around us.
I give her a cigarette
and light it for her.
She inhales gratefully.
Needed that, said
the bishop
to the good-time girl,
Nima says.
How's your *** life?
She asks
after a few minutes
of silence.
Non-existent.
Likewise;
I feel like
a ****** nun.
I watch traffic go by;
a boy and girl
walk by
hand in hand.
Nima watches them.
Bet they're *** life's
up to the top rung,
she says.
How's it
at the hospital?
I ask.
The usual:
stupid quacks,
*** starved nurses
and medication
to help me get off
other drugs.
And is it working?
Don't know;
all I know is
that I am aching
for a fix.
What about a drink?
Not allowed.
Coffee?
You know how
to get to
a girl's heart,
she says sarcastically.
Coke and burger
and you're on.
I nod my head.
We walk through
the Square
and up towards
Leicester Square
to a burger bar
where we sit
and order both.
If you come visit me
at the hospital next time,
bring me
a packet of smokes.
Sure, if you like.
And they'll look at you
suspiciously.
Why?
They suspect
we had ***
in that cupboard.
We did.
I know
and so do they,
Nima says, smiling.
I picture the scene
some weeks back,
she and I
in a broom cupboard
off the ward
in the semi-dark,
risking it.
Quite a lark.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
What have you got there?
Record, LP.
Nima looks at me.
Which one?
Ornette Coleman.
I show her
the record sleeve:
three men standing
in snow.
She nods,
loses interest,
looks away.
Pigeons make noises
about us;
people pass by.
We're in Trafalgar Square.
How are you?
I ask,
sitting on the low wall
around the fountain.
*** starved,
need a fix
and a smoke,
she says.
I can give you
a smoke.
She sits beside me.
There is the sound
of water
from the fountain
behind us;
chat of others
around us.
I give her a cigarette
and light it for her.
She inhales gratefully.
Needed that, said
the bishop
to the good-time girl,
Nima says.
How's your *** life?
She asks
after a few minutes
of silence.
Non-existent.
Likewise;
I feel like
a ****** nun.
I watch traffic go by;
a boy and girl
walk by
hand in hand.
Nima watches them.
Bet they're *** life's
up to the top rung,
she says.
How's it
at the hospital?
I ask.
The usual:
stupid quacks,
*** starved nurses
and medication
to help me get off
other drugs.
And is it working?
Don't know;
all I know is
that I am aching
for a fix.
What about a drink?
Not allowed.
Coffee?
You know how
to get to
a girl's heart,
she says sarcastically.
Coke and burger
and you're on.
I nod my head.
We walk through
the Square
and up towards
Leicester Square
to a burger bar
where we sit
and order both.
If you come visit me
at the hospital next time,
bring me
a packet of smokes.
Sure, if you like.
And they'll look at you
suspiciously.
Why?
They suspect
we had ***
in that cupboard.
We did.
I know
and so do they,
Nima says, smiling.
I picture the scene
some weeks back,
she and I
in a broom cupboard
off the ward
in the semi-dark,
risking it.
Quite a lark.
BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1967
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