Structo issue three

better believe it, baby.”

“How do I know you’re serious? How do I know this isn’t just a bit of fun for you?”

“Oh, Sharon.” The man pulls back slightly and looks at her with a look of deep disappointment. I watch Sharon unconsciously move closer to him, to narrow the space between them, and feel depressed at her stupidity. She looks at him again, and he gazes back with those deep brown eyes, muddy pools that you feel you could drown in. Eventually she sighs and says, “What do you want me to do?”

“What time do you finish with this,” and he indicates me with a jerk of his thumb.

Sharon doesn’t even glance towards me. “My shift finishes at eight.”

The man smiles broadly. “I’ll ring you just before eight to tell you where to meet me. Come with a bag packed. You and me, we’re for better things than this place. I promise you that, honey.”

“If you don’t ring me this time, Tony, it’s over. You know that? You can’t keep me on this piece of string forever, you know, just reeling me in when you fancy a bit of …” and Sharon blushes and looks away. I blush too at the mental picture that springs up in my mind, but as usual I am just scenery and no-one notices.

“I will ring. I promise.” And with that Tony has turned and is walking back up the road. He pauses and shouts back over his shoulder. “Eight o’ clock, remember.”

Sharon is in the laundry room at the other end of the house just as her phone rings. It vibrates on the table but I know she won’t hear it there. That is why I chose to soil myself twenty minutes ago, in the hope that after she had toileted and changed me, she would still be in the laundry sorting out my old clothes, and I would be back sitting at the kitchen table with my keyboard, waiting.

I let the phone ring out, and then wait for that single beep that tells me a message has been left. I wait in vain. After a minute of silence I reach out with my single index digit. I have watched Sharon often enough to know how she operates her simple budget phone. I strain my arm forward, all the while listening for Sharon’s footsteps on the corridor beyond the kitchen door.

I suck in my breath as the phone slips under my awkward finger and jolts a couple of inches further away. I swear, using the words I heard Sharon say sometimes, but they come out as a strangled squawk. A window has appeared in the phone’s screen.

Missed Call.

My face is screwed up with pain as I again stab at the right button beneath that window.

Delete number?

Another excruciating stab. My breath is coming in short, shallow gasps now.

Number deleted.

The screen slips back to the photo of Reg, all good nature and wagging tail.

I slowly relax, watching my arm fold back into my chest with jerky, robotic movements.