Scunthorpe.

No matter how much of the room’s stale air he breathed in, inhaling deep streams into his lungs rapidly like deer having evaded ensnarement, his body remained malnourished and dehydrated. The reality was unfortunately that the room was in no condition to provide any organic sustenance to any visitor nor lodger. Marky, strapped for cash and needing somewhere fast post-Glasgow, had been renting it now for three weeks; the landlord had been dodging his calls, and one by one he had added each of the flat’s appliances to a list of condemned items. Ontop of this, he had neglected it a fair amount himself; work as always was taking it’s toll, and between double shifts and all nighters down the Swan & Crown, he was seldom in a mood for cleaning. Ancient cigarette smoke stained the ceiling with flat grey swirls; black mould grew in the corners of the rooms like a patient plague awaiting new victims. Empty mugs of stale tea lined the window-sill, glowing a strange deep orange within the light of the streetlamp outside his window. A clock ticked pedantically above them, anchoring them as they recovered from the intensity of a clumsy but well-needed fuck. He turned to her naked body slowly; she did the same, sighing aloud, loudly with a light-hearted, exaggerated release, before reaching over to the bedside table fumbling for a lighter.
‘Ya want a ciggy?’, Marky asked, slicking back his sweat-matted hair, his collection of curb chains swaying and jingling in the process. She deliberated.
‘Yeah erm… I was going to ask babe- do you have anything stronger?’. Her animated orange face smirked. ‘Long night, innit? I need to take the edge off; try make the hangover bit more bearable for tomorrow’.
Marky nodded, before locating a baggy of weed in his top drawer, decanting, rolling it, sealing and lighting with an altogether expert sleight and speed. She received the paper baton, taking two long drags before exhaling and passing them back to Marky. The light from the television, flashed against their lightless bodies, as the figures on the screen moved from scene to scene.
‘You’re quite the expert’, she sung. Marky paused, mid-exhale. ‘I mean- with the… you know’. She pointed at the joint.
‘Well, my uncle used to have a farm, up by Balornock way, like… couple of top floor flats, all gutted and kitted like... used to help out for a bit of pocket money. Malawi Gold, Sour Diesel, Lamb’s Bread... all sorts, like’. He took another drag, and coughed. ‘I guess you could call it: misspent youth’. Even in the dark of the room, he could see the blank expression on her face. ‘Back home in Glasgow, ya know? Weed varieties. My Uncle... ’.
‘Oh... oh right, right!’ For some reason, she pretended to cough. ‘Right... I was wondering what you were on about there’. The woman laughed nervously, a little too much given the situation, before holding out her hand for a drag like a child waiting to be given a computer game controller back from an older sibling. Despite the fact that they had spent the last six hours together; approximately two-and-a-half talking in the local and only club (Ali Bar Bar’s) over dangerously loud and minimal techno music, another two-and-a-half dancing and darting in and out of the toilets to split tablets of Ecstacy between themselves, and the final hour, fucking on his unwashed sheets in the musty micro-climate of the room, he was pretty convinced that she had understood less than 50% of what he’d said all night. Some things, like taking drugs together, kissing when completely pissed and then calling a cab for them to share, could be relied upon basic sign language or a drunken pidgin, especially within the din of a cheap sticky club. Actual conversation between them however, was a struggle, and the more Marky sobered up, the more excruciating it felt. He recalled her saying at one point in the night, that she was from Billericay, and that she was trying to relocate her friends in the club, at the time of their meeting in the crowded smoking area. Laying next to him, clothed with nothing more than a pair of large silver hoops, she handled the joint, supping on its fumes. Her breasts, rounded and enlarged clearly from surgery, sat swollen and fixed like fleshy water buoys ready for deployment. Either side of her belly button were two miniscule identical glints of cubic zirconia, embedded within her overtanned flesh. Her crotch was hairless; so alien and yet so familiar like the raw flesh of a spent hen. Somewhere on the ledge beyond the window, a pigeon cooed, mumbling softly, aloud, reverberating through the brick.
Marky rose to his feet, scratched himself and stretched before clothing a pair of faded blue boxers and inspecting the contents of the mini-fridge on the far side of the room. It was bare— aside from an expired yoghurt, a soon to be finished container of milk and a pale withered broccoli, the illuminated trove of the fridge was as good as at empty. She briefly gazed over at his hunched back. Within a large tattoo, a doleful woman hugged a stone cross, surrounded by crashing waves. He turned to her. ‘I’ve got no food in- I might order something, if you’re game?’. She ignored him, now focused on the tiny illimunated screen of her phone, swiping with continuous rights and lefts. He sighed to himself, closing the door and returning to the bed, slumping down. She squealed.
‘Gosh you ain’t half heavy are you?’. As she shifted her posture, her legs adjusted accordingly. He caught a good glimpse of her pussy. His pulse increased, thumping deep within his neck as he remembered.
‘Will it— will you, be all good like, with... you know?’. He pointed at his trail of semen, trailing from her. Her lip and eyebrow raised in unison, as one of her infamous smirks emerged.
‘Oh— dont’t you worry babe; it’s fine. It is all good’.