izzy

There is a single piece of popcorn in here with me, on the tiled floor. If popcorn could look sullen, this would be it. No – accusing – that’s it. I’m sitting in a toilet stall at Cineworld with a single, accusatory piece of popcorn and the door is sighing open because the lock is broken and I couldn’t be bothered moving to another stall. I can’t stand people who take food into toilets. Someone brought their popcorn right into this cubicle and placed it on the floor while they did their business. It freaks me out. Drinks not so much, for some reason. They really should have the candy bar after the toilets at the cinema, to avoid this situation. Maybe that’s not good business practise. Maybe the toilets need to be protected from people who aren’t paying customers. The door is wide open. There’s a short, squat woman in her mid-fifties looking at me with her lips sort of pursed in horror. She’s not moving, just staring, and the moment seems to stretch. It looks like she’s stapled her décolletage to her neck with gold chain so it can’t run away. Her white capris are shivering. Her gauzy zebra print blouse flutters under the fluorescence. I stand and slam the door in her face, hear the shuffle of white kitten-heel sandals stumbling backwards. The popcorn is still looking at me.

*

sarah

I smelled the smoke on the air a mile away
and so when I arrived home, I was ready
stepped over the charred threshold just like Bruce Willis would
gazed coolly at the smoking remains of my bedroom
took grim pleasure in the twisted face of a childhood doll
brushed ash off a photo of my family just like Hollywood taught me to
and had a good breath ready for the piece de resistance
dropped to my knees in a safe patch of ground
hinged open my mouth, turned my head to the sky
and screamed, just like Leo Dicaprio
screamed ‘FUCK
YES
FINALLY’

*