Fluffeh Kittehs
He let the tobacco smoke ooze down into his lungs, filling them with a stinging warmth that comforted him. He sipped his beer and looked with hooded eyes at the dingy bar. The barman was cleaning his glasses and attempting to flirt with a drunk prostitute who was slumped on a bar stool drinking rum and coke. She smoked incessantly, glancing at her mobile from time to time to see if any customers had rung. At the other end of the bar a grubby man read a newspaper, and two elderly women sat and gossiped over brandy.

He sighed and took another draught of smoke, finished his beer and stood up to leave. The prostitute glanced at him with half-conscious eyes, but he wasn’t interested.

The night air was cold and sharp, the streets deserted. His footsteps echoed off the buildings as he trudged towards the docks, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. His mind wandered here and there, but his feet remembered where they were going and unerringly took him to The Compass. He stood outside The Compass for a while, looking in through the cracked windows, remembering why he was here.

He’d met her here. A few months ago, now he remembered, maybe a year. He’d been in town for a few days and had come here and had had a wild passionate night with a local girl who worked at The Compass. She had blue-black hair, blood red lips and smouldering eyes. He licked his lips lightly as he remembered the night of wild sex they’d had. Well, he thought, when in Rome…

The door opened easily under his hand. He walked over to the bar and spoke to the barman.

“Is that girl still here”
“Which girl, friend?”
“Black hair… worked here a few months back.”
“Ah, Maia… nah she works down the laundry now, but they’ll be closed.”
“Where does she live?”
The barman coughed and looked at him in a knowing way. He pulled out some coins and tossed them on to the counter.
“43 Harris Terrace.”

He walked there quickly, anticipating another night of sexual excess. Harris Terrace was dimly lit and in a shabby state. He splashed through puddles as he counted off the numbers, until finally he stood outside 43.

It was, for the state of the street, a surprisingly well kept house. A few tiles were missing, but the paintwork was clean, and the small patch of garden in front, no bigger than a table cloth, was well cared for. So, he thought, this is where she is, should be easy to get her out again. All the memories of that night ran through his sex starved brain and his could feel himself rising as he anticipated another bout.

The door knocked swung easily. He shuffled from foot to foot as he waited, almost having to bite his lip to calm himself down.

The door opened and Maia stood there. She looked more careworn than before, and a baby was perched on her hip. She didn’t recognise him at first, but then she did and she looked surprised.

“Look, John!”, she said, turning to the baby, “Daddy has come back!”
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 6 Jul 2008, 12:21, Reply)