There is an orange light above us, but it is not on. It is broken.
I have got a boyfriend. I do not love him, but he is a boyfriend. I am waiting for him, in a pub, in Dorchester. It is a brown pub. There are two beers on the bar. But the bar is beginning to break up; it is starting to degrade, lose definition. There are black spaces where there should be pub.
My boyfriend has got a car. It is a white one. It is called one point six. We sit in it, inna car park of West Station and we stare at the yellow ragworts. It is called ‘hanging out'. It is the same as waiting, but it is more rubbish than waiting because nothing will happen at the end of it.
I sit in a pub waiting. At the end of the day, I think, all we are is scraps of lost code in a broken machine. When I look down, I have got blank spaces where it should be arm.
The bar is brown oak wood. The floor is brown pine wood. But the signal is definitely degrading. The beer is starting to fuzz, white and frozen. Green flashes in it, spits of oily black, acid yellow. My hand what I reaches it out, breaks into horizontal lines and jerks across a screen.
The smell signals are breaking up as well. What was stale beer drifts into burning tyres, folds into old man's vest
If my hand can get hold of the beer, everything will be dogs again. If he comes in time to drink the beer, I will do what he wants me to do in the back of his car.
If he comes too late, we will break up.
Two beers or not two beers?
That is the quest.