The air hot

Like dirty blankets over yr face. You asked who knitted my jumper. Who the eyeless woman flicking her hair Farah Fawcett-style. Yr fringe blunt, shot, blonde. Who are you? Yr palm coarse, I was surprised. The peeling, cracked skin felt like lies, seen next to the baby-pink of yr skin. You dressed in a period outfit. The Eighties. Eclectic. White perforated pseudo-oxfords with leather laces that trailed behind yr ankles like dog-tails. The laces refused to stay put in their butterfly knots. Baggy pants with the MC Hammer-Bollywood DNA you bought this afternoon (so you said). You were happy to see me, patted my shoulder and asked me questions in an accent I hated. Pale Englishmen who wore bespoke suits in summer. You were pale too, though nothing seemed wrong with you. Until I shook yr hand and the rough skin made my heart jump. You smiled and you smiled, gap between yr front teeth, the rest white tombstones on the pink earth of yr gum. You smiled at everything: my idea for a man purse made of accordion leather, the indie kids fucking in the girls' loo, the balding disco jockey. You smiled, told me you liked me. I like you too. I asked where you were from, what did you do, why you came. Grey London, fashion at St. Martins, for the sun. You said you were going to the zoo tomorrow, see the white leopard tanning its spots, sniffing its own urine.