I’m the happy face with the exaggerated movements in the solitary of my shop.
Happy. Whistling. Mugging. Overpronouncing. Enlivening their mornings my way.
Sitting alone at the side, upon a pile of the Daily Mail I drag on the rolled cigarette and curse, muttering to myself. That bitch. My money, not hers. I won’t let this rest. Following to the grave.
I spit and throw the fag down. The door chings open. I bound up, enlivening their mornings, my way.