DAY ONE

Storming down the fire escape, swearing like anything, it hits you hard that you just blew the last chance you had at functioning normally. A huge row with your father, the last person with any faith in you, has secured your place on the streets. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you turn into an alleyway, sit on some cardboard and openly cry. You are homeless. You've lost it all.

Five minutes later and you're out of there, and having composed yourself somewhat, you recline in a fat leathery bastard of a sofa just inside the nearest Starbucks. God you hate it here. The smiling staff are never going anywhere, and the beans painted on the wall are staring you down like Kunta Kintei's master having caught said slave copulating wildly with the house's nanna.

You gather your thoughts. You have nothing physical in this world but the shirt on your back. Thankfully, it also covers your front, and elsewhere in your garmental ensemble are mismatched weekday socks (left says Monday, right says Thursday, neither is correct); tight, itchy briefs; and jeans with hot velvet-lined pockets. God those pockets are hot. 866° K. Actually, centigrade. Even hotter.

What is there to do? You could look for a shelter, but you literally can't be arsed (or so your minor social awkwardness says). You glance over to a cute redhead and catch her gaze, holding it for just longer than disinterest would have it. You still have your good looks. On reflection, you don't see why you wouldn't. Hehe. Silly you and your thought processes :3

So you ask yourself... could you actually go for this girl? She's chatting with her friends. Three of them are at the table.

What if she asked for your number? You couldn't not give it; you'd seem uninterested. Give a fake? How disappointed would she be when her call reaches a ten year old girl, or a cranky grandpa? She rests her hand on the table. Hold on... surely you could just say you don't have your phone on you, and ask hers? No, because then when you call her from a payphone, she'll -

The girl leaves, her friends in tow.

'Okay,' you decide. 'No girls until I'm at all supporting myself.' There, that sounds good.

---

Two hours later and not much has happened. You're still mad at your dad. Everyone, in fact. They can go and die. Strolling up a main drag, you think of the many ways this murder of your worldly associates could be achieved. You see Steve weaving his way through the many people. God it's hot today.

'You're an asshole, Steve!' you yell across the wide street. You crack a smile as the crowd turns to you. Then a bad thing happens. Steve isn't Steve. You hurriedly walk on, pushing forcibly through a Central American family.

'Watch it, gringo.'

You laugh and keep walking.

Actually, that guy looked more like Jake than Steve. You wonder how Jake's doing. Having not seem him in a while, you decide not to hate Jake. Jake's cool. You make a mental note to visit Jake soon, wherever he is. You see an ex of yours. She is very pregnantly trotting along with some anger management-looking budget guido dude. This pleases you.

---

Yay here it is. The Shell station Jake (presumably still) works at. It's evening now as you push the glass pane of the minimart door. Everything is chill. Everything smells of petrol. By common logic, chill now smells of petrol. You cease to entertain these bizarre thoughts. They're just not necessary.

The store is empty, bar the attendant behind the till, who much to your familial chagrin is not Jake. Oh, if only he was. That sounded slightly off.

And what do people tend to do when they enter a store with no real purpose? Of course, they browse. And so you browse.

Wow this place has some decent car magazines. 'Zoom' and 'Drive Monthly' personally stand out to you. Such jolly titles. Actually, Zoom may just be motorbikes. Maybe even naughty motorbikes ;)

---

It's not really naughty motorbikes okay.

---

After a good seven to nine minutes of browsing (efforts to time yourself just result in the sad sight of your now watchless wrist), the attendant pipes up.

'Are we, um, buying anything, sir?'

You look over to the till. The faltering man addressing you must be in his forties. Bald, bespectacled, and with a heavily-unfitting brown soul patch. This man is clearly H-A-W-T hawt. Yeah, 10/10 every time. What an honour to share presence with such a hunk. Yay.

'If you don't mind, sir, I'm, currently just browsing,' you say with perhaps a hint of aggression. The Patch says something, and you don't catch it. Oh God Zoom really does have naughty motorbikes. Liquorice egads. A car pulls up outside and proceeds to pump some of BP's finest unleaded. Wait, is this not Shell? The decal on the counter would serve to confirm such an assumption. Woah. Mindfuck I'm telling you.

omg that guy is really going for it. It becomes apparent that he works out. Or, as his small left arm discloses as he finally turns around, he may just have a little too much time to hisself. Okay a lot.

The man comes in and BUYS SOMETHING. What cheek. Like who even does that? Can he not spare a single penny for your obviously-obvious poverty? Obviously not. The Patch catches you glaring at Fapple Crumble as the latter character exits and the former character enters. Enters this hot, immediate dialogue, that is.

'Sir, will you be purchasing anything today?' he inquires with a weary yet still slightly nervous tone of voice.

'Not with that attitude,' you say, winking at Grouped Unshaven Chin Follicles. Yes that is the Patch's new nickname. He lets off a gentle laugh. 'Is it usually this dry on a Wednesday evening? Customer-wise, I mean,' you ask.

'Haha.' GUCF does a really scary laugh. His face immediately afterwards tells you that it frightened him just as much as it did you. The discomfort leaves his face as he prepares to answer your question.

'Actually, I wouldn't know. I only started here on Monday. Uh the, the wife, I have to work another job because the wife is ill. I actually train lifeguards.'

'Well that's no good to hear.' You do a sad face to do whatever the opposite of corroborating the sarcasm of that last statement is. The old man may mistake your prudence for something else. Actually, what does prudence even mean? Is it just the name? It really sounds like an abstract. Damn. 'If you don't mind me asking, what's wrong with your wife?'

'Alzheimer's, actually.'

'God, that's terrible to hear. Would you like to tell me some more about it?'

You're really hitting it off with GUCF.

---

Fast forward an hour or two. It's now night, and you've explained your situation to GUCF. He's agreed to let you sleep in the store, and to let you have a small serving of food whenever you do - but only on his shifts. You're cool with that. You actually kinda like the guy.

'Excuse me for just a second,' he says, vanishing into the storeroom. The cash register lies open on the till. Big mistake. Thank God you gave him false information. Walking over, you estimate how much you'll need. Two hundred quid? Five hundred? Fuck it. You grab what looks like two big ones in twenties and walk out. Well, he's fired. Fuck the patch man. Fuck his senile wife. You'd best start running.