Saturday, 16 June 2007

28: baked potato heaven

I watch the man drive away. His job is to drive between warehouses and supermarkets in his green uniform. He listens to the radio or tapes. He looks out of the window. He parks in a lay by and gets out to have a stretch. His back cracks a bit. He goes over to the bushes and has a long piss. The sun is warm but not burning in the sky. He walks back along the hard shoulder, only twenty metres or so, to the baked potato stall he passed. He buys a baked potato.

Nice day, he says to the woman who serves him the baked potato (tuna and cheese).

Mmmm, she says. Lovely day today. Two pounds for that, love.

The man pays for his baked potato.

He carries it back to the lorry.

He opens the door and puts the potato on the driver’s seat, then climbs in. He transfers the potato to his lap. The warmth of it creeps into his thighs like a piss stain.

It feels nice.

Baked potato.

Heaven.

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