Chocolate by Tindersticks
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",
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