Being Beta

Exercises in the higher banter with One of 26. Elsewhere called 'poet of adland'. By a whipple-squeezer. Find out why being beta is the new alpha: betarish at googlemail dot com

Monday, October 18, 2010

Reportage: Saturday night, on the 159

It was probably about two, maybe three, days worth of stubble. Underneath it was an impish expression. He was wearing a brown leather jacket that was just about the right side of dissolute.

The seat was empty, and so he hopped up on to it. Under her hat, the girl lifted her right eyelid open slightly, flicked the eyeball across, thought better of it, and wriggled to get a bit closer to the window.

But not that much closer.

Which appeared to be all the invitation he needed.

His left hand went on to her right thigh, well below the seam of her skirt, marking ownership of that expanse of her tights.

Her other eye opened, but before she could say anything came another voice:

“Where the fuck are you?”

And at the bottom of the stairs was another girl who was, let’s be blunt, blonder, slimmer, longer-legged, better-looking. And angrier.

As he got out of the seat, and headed up the stairs behind this second girl, he looked round, as if expecting a round of applause.

The first girl, along with the rest of us, looked like she was tempted to give it to him.

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