The cigarretes in my pocket

I look outside, through the window display and hope I could take my lunch break before the sun comes down. Maybe I still can steal one sunshine or two from the day. I mentally trace my route to the tasteless pret-a-manger sandwiches, to the bench in the back of the street, to the cigarettes in my pocket. I never swallow the smoke, I’m not a nicotine addict. Cigarettes just taste good at night, surrounded by people, hiding behind a drink,. I can’t even stand the smell on the morning after, impregnating the sheets and the furniture, the skins post-sex, post-war, post-uncomfortable silence.

17 minutes and 45 seconds to the lunch break. I try to estimate my chances. Carnaby is starting to look red, the sun fading out the shapes of the street. It’s definitely colder .

Emma stops by the shop. It’s the second time today, she says she wants to borrow my Otis Redding album. “My shop needs some soul,” she says. “No soul in here neither,” I reply. She smiles.

Emma likes me. I knew it from the very first day. It has always been easy for me to attract girls’ attention, to find somebody to spend the night with. I wear the right jeans (vintage 501 Levis, always with a white v-neck t-shirt), I say the right things ( ‘The XX’ are the best new band on the face of the earth, the last Paul Auster book is crap, I just work in here to save money for my own ‘on the road’ trip around America.) I can do it: look thin enough, cool enough, smart enough. The problem is that sometimes I forget it. The faking. I forget to keep smiling to somebody’s anecdote, to nod when they talk about german post-punk bands, Murakami or Damien Hirst . And then they look closer and start discovering gestures, stares, words that don’t match this lie.

Ian enters the shop carrying a half-emptied bag of McDonalds’ fries. He’s five minutes late. “Your turn, mate,” he says. I grab my Barbour jacket, make a quick stop by ‘Pret’ and walk towards the bench in front of his shop, knowing he’ll still look perfect throw the steamed window. I look for the Marlboro’s in my pocket, happy to have something to hold that will stop my hands from shaking. It’s already dark outside.