This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt.
He stood on the street corner and froze. His mind went numb and he thought he was going to be sick or piss himself. Or both. He knew she was a drama queen, and telling her about Pauline was the stupidest fucking idea he had ever had in his life. Or second stupidest after his famous writer pose idea, the famous writer with notebooks and fucking fountain pen pose, the sort of famous writer who sits in pretentious French-style cafés, the kind of café that plays Edith Piaf and George Brassens songs all day to pretentious famous writer poseurs with their fucking fountain pens and notebooks and their glass of pastis.
What a prat he had been. He’d handed himself over to the drama queen without even realising it. She had the imagination of a boiled potato, but she knew him inside out. He stood there on the corner, the park on one side of the street, his apartment block on the other. And she was there, like all three witches from Macbeth rolled into one, standing next to the litter bin, and the litter bin was on fire. Ash was already floating high in the air, pale flakes like dirty snow. Paper ash. From the street corner he could see the black cover of a notebook curl in the heat.