In the afternoon. Air too still in the house to breathe. Blood stopped in veins, backing up, thickening. Go into motion; push through. Fingers into fist. The muscle doesn’t rise like it used to. Moles slide along skin under which a bicep is now less visible. Push through.

Outside, an empty street. This could be the end of the world, with one sole survivor. Cars: Toyotas, Fords, vehicles vacant of their families all covered in puckered dirt left by rain. Fine sand, or salt, traces picked up from the sea and dropped in a storm, remaining on the cars when the carrier water evaporated, last night or this morning. The air still has a minerality; the rain was recent or is returning. For now the sky is story-book blue. Clouds linger on its periphery, towards its horizon which is penetrated by trees (green) and roofs (slate). There is no reason to be out in the street at this time. Everyone should be indoors, at work or at school. Sandy deposits have gathered where the road meets the kerb. Kick at the sand in the street, kick at the fucking sand in the fucking street. Ambient ions, harbingers of the storm, tingle just at the edge of perception. In this direction, towards the park, the sun spreads heat across shoulders and creates rivulets of sweat which drip down the gap between back and shirt. The park’s empty as well, not even a mother and pram combination. But that’s not quite right, there’s a man on a bench towards the shaded rear where bushes extend scabby branches anarchically over the path. His feet worry at the ground in shoes tied around with plastic bags. An idea of what he smells of is discernible even before the smell itself. Head bowed at first, the man mutters and his patches of greasy brown hair seem to steam in the afternoon humidity.

— Bastards, bastards, the man mutters. — Idiot bastards. The man looks up, – and there’s you looking. What at? You haven’t read a book in your life. Bastards.

It’s too late to look away, his flow won’t be diverted now.

— You’re the same as all the rest of them. I used to be like you, you know, wouldn’t give another person the time of day. The man sneers, — smile for fuck’s sake. You don’t know what there is in the world to be sad about. I know plenty.

His teeth glisten between his lips, which are coated in a spitty glaze. When he says ‘smile’ he extends out his arm, and splashes of Special Brew spray around in grand arches. He seems like he would say more, but the humidity works on him and he curls up. — Bastards. Same all over.

In the centre of the park there’s a roundabout. Old fashioned, it still has dimpled metal plates for its base, and metal poles for its exo-skeleton. It’s a friend from childhood, although now its paint is flaking and it will surely be deconstructed soon and replaced with something safer. Years ago Tunde broke a front tooth when he jumped off the roundabout at full speed. Another past summer saw Maisie Dukes catch her shoelaces in the underneath machinery. The centrifugal force of the roundabout, pushed by kids who either hadn’t learnt about consequences or didn’t care, twisted her ankle and she had to take her bloodied knee back to her mother’s house. She wasn’t allowed near the roundabout after that so it took her a while to work up the courage to jump back on and sit in the middle watching the world turn about her. Lying back on the roundabout with an adult’s body means that it can be pushed around using the feet. Looking up at the unpunctuated sky movement around and around can only be registered by the stomach: the sky gives no points of reference. With eyes closed, however, the spinning is more apparent. Push harder, faster, push through.

— I’ve been looking for you. It’s Wilson’s voice, forever with a rasp of uncleared throat phlegm. — I’ve got a job for you. Wilson’s always direct to his point. The sun bleeds red light through my eyelids. I open them up a crack.