Naked from the waist down and locked inside the call centre’s disabled toilet. Drying my boxers, trousers, and socks. They hang from the electric blow heater. Soaked on the walk to work because I can’t even buy myself a bus ticket. Call centres just about cover my bedsit’s rent.
Hunkered down and weeping beside the toilet because the dryer has melted holes in my hot, wet clothes. I’m sore, shafted by the system. Capitalism has defeated me. The cold streets seemed more romantic in books. Out there, dogs piss on me.
Someone knocks on the door. I flush but cry on.
Excellent.
Heartwreching story and a clever play on words in the title.
Beautiful, poetic little piece of effective writing. Lots of feeling in a few words. Keep them coming.
this one rips your heart out
Very good. But what’s a bedsit?
Poignant.
Great imagery.