who drinks from a large blue bottle of Frosty Jacks Cider. The skater peers over the lip of the bottle as he skates up to me, dribbling cider down his cheeks. He has an old man face on a young boy’s body. He props his skateboard against the wall of the bar and looks to the sky. His long caterpillar green Mohawk flexes solidly with every head turn. He loves weather like this, apparently. Says it makes him feel like he’s in a zombie movie. There’s a tooth missing in his smile and he seems to know me. Says it’s been a long time since he’s been back here. Ten years nearly, he says. I apologise and mention how terrible I am with remembering people’s faces. He doesn’t seem to mind. He tells me his name is Flem and I suddenly remember him from a house party years ago. He hid in my friend’s cupboard – who he didn’t know – and hung her clothes from his piercings. So I ask if he’s the guy who hid in a cupboard at a house party and hung clothes from all of his piercings. He nods and chuck-
les. Says his nipples bled trying to get those coat-hangers out. He asks if he could have a rollie, so I reach into my back pocket and hand him my pouch. We watch a man walk past with a power moustache and sockless, yolk coloured espadrilles. His mustard coloured t-shirt is short and tight enough to show some under-paunch. He talks on his phone about it all having something to do with his squad goals. His squad goals are his primary focus, apparently. As he strolls past, Flem suggests he name his next tapeworm Hercules, adding a fucker at the end as he passes. Flem spits on the pavement before licking his Rizla paper. ‘So where have you been?’ I ask trying to distract him from the under-paunch. He shrugs while he rolls his cigarette and tells me he’s been living in squats around Bath for the last few years. Says he moved up there with his girlfriend, until things turned weird between them and they split. He asks if I remember Talulah, who I presume was his girlfriend. I
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