Tindersticks - chocolate

It had been the perfect Friday afternoon, 

the job was

almost done.

The house we were decorating was owned by a little old man,

forever in

the same three piece suit he'd probabbly had since he was demobbed.

He seemed to be forever

on his way to the post office,

carrying brown paper ansd string wrapped parcels under his

arm.

He'd bring us out china cups of camp coffee and plates of custard cream biscuits.

The house had belonged to his parents who had both passed away within weeks of each other, a few

years back.

They were the only people he had ever lived with, this was the only house he had

ever lived in.

I wondered what would happen to the house when he's gone.

It was a

short walk to my bedsit, once a similar house to the old man's, now broken into lots of single room

accomodation.

It also once had a great garden like his, now occupied by one-storey modern

block building, containing the dentist and chiropodist.

In my room was an electric cooker,

which I only used in winter to keep warm,

next to that was a sink with a glass shelf above

it, on which was a toothbrush and carton of marlboro's.

There was a table with a chair in one

corner, a single bed in the other, and about four sq ft in the middle.

There was a wooden

drawer under the bed with most of my clothes in, the rest was over the back of the chair.

I

had a record player on a table and boxes of records underneath.

The bathroom for the first

and the second floor was opposite my room,

it had a meter for the water which took two

50pence pieces, you'd have to wait half an hour for the water to heat up, and keep an eye on the

door in case some sod pinched your bath.

There was one toilet upstairs and one outside, but

no one used the outside one anymore, so it was where the local prostitutes would take their clients

for a quickie.

I'd spend as little time as I could in my room, my skin was still warm and

soft from the bath as I walked into town.

So I was sat on my usual bar stool in my usual pub

by 6.30, the usual twelve or so regulars in at this time of the evening, nice and relaxed before the

post 8.00 crush, we'd crowd around the tiny bar then pool tables, the house rule for fool was winner

stays on, you'd chalk your name on the balckboard, and wait your turn. The challenger would pay for

the game, so if you were good, you 'd play all night.Tonight I was great.

She walked into the

pool room just as I potted the black, the next name on the list, bent down to the slot on the table

and put coins in.

I was used to seeing her surrounded by burgundy flocked wallpaper and red

velvet upholstery in the sunday night pub around the corner; she looked different stood here in the

pool room, she looked good, she was looking at me.

I ended the game as quickly as I could,

without losing badly and stood near her.

"Would you like a drink?", she asked.

"I get them. What do you want?" I replied. "The same as you're having", she

said.

The great thing about being a regular when the bars turned deep is it only takes a

raised eyebrow and a couple of nods, and two bottles of Holster Pils had been passed over people's

heads to you. We did the pool room dance for a while, moving to" excuse me"'s bending

around elbows and pool cues until we decided to move on

It was too early to go to the club,

so we went around the corner to the Sunday night pub. It was still quite busy on a Friday night,

full of couples and students. It had a reputation as a gay bar, probably why the students came in,

to feel safe.

She was my dream, we drank pernod and blacks, talked about John Barry, Ford

Cortinas (she preferred the Mark 3), what was best: gel or Brylcream? I preferred the

Brylcream.

She even agreed On Her Majesty's Secret Service was the best Bond film, if you

accept it as a whole and not just get hung up about George Lazenby.

She smoked Silkcuts, she

didn't mind Marlboros, but we both had a fondness for Old Port cigars

We moved down to the

club. Upstairs for a couple of onion bhajis went down to the quiet bar, near the dance floors.

We decided to leave early, you wouldn't want to be there in the end, when the lights came on. You'd

never sit down in here again. In a depressing shuffle we pushed to the door, now it was good to get

up and out, while it was still a black hole, warm, and smokey, full of possibilities...

She

lived by the river, the other side of town, queue for taxis was hell as usual, next to the late

night chippy, the worst chips you could buy, but at this time of night, full. Outside fights and

throwing up. We jumped in the taxi, nothing mattered but us.

Back at hers, a bedsit in a

house similar to mine, she'd done something, painted three walls, put up some old fifties star wall

paper, a big Bowie poster and some nice curtains, it would be easy for me to change my woodchip

magnolia bedsit standard. Afterall, it was my job. She had a few lamps here and there were some

candles. She made us proper hot chocolate, not the instant shit you get from the machine. She had

Fox'sbiscuits and a small bottle of Cointreau, too. The end of a perfect day. The taste of

chocolate, cigarette, and orange liqueur made it even seem better. I undid her tartan miniskirt,

pulled off her black wool tights, my lips moved up her legs... What the fuck? I had a large hard

dick poking me in the eye. "Shit! you're a chap!" I felt like jumping through the window,

screaming, I couldn't move...

She... he...still looked the same... I had a pain in my head, I

wanted to do something, say something...

He was holding me, sobbing... "you must have

known, how could you not tell?" And "I love you, I can be your woman..." His eyes

were still beautiful, deep brown, his lips still chocolatey and orangey.

"Shit!" I

said, "I was never a breast man, anyway..."