The Mongrel

26 Sep

It was just starting to drizzle as I emerged from the paper shop out onto the narrow street. I pulled my packet of Camel Blue from the back pocket of my jeans, discarding an old bus ticket to the pavement.

“May I have one of those, please?” came the timid voice from down at my feet.

“Sorry, but that was my last one. I suppose I could fish it out of that puddle, if you want it that badly.”

She smiled. What started as a quick closed-mouth smile rapidly grew into a broad grin that showed her clean teeth. And then, almost as if she’d caught reflection of herself and felt ashamed, she quickly closed up again.  

“Ah, you meant a cigarette?” I said, “I’m sure I could stretch to one of them.”

I handed her one, she put it between her lips, and I lit it.

“You can understand me,” she said, “can’t you?”

What a strange question, I thought, but I said, “I seem to, yea.”

“Are you a dog, too?”

I took a deep drag on my cigarette and looked down at my new acquaintance. She had large, oval-shaped eyes that were the most mesmerising hazel colour; clear skin that looked almost silk-like; long and wavy dark blonde hair that stuck to her forehead due to the damp; she wore a hooded red woollen coat that came down to just below her waist; light coloured tights; and a pair of ankle-high boots. She was pretty. Her eyes were like two tunnels that stretched away into a dark past. And yet, the innocence remained in her. A naïvety. Like she would trust anyone. This worried me. I couldn’t tell you her age. Perhaps 21, perhaps 30. She was thin. Too thin to be healthy.

“You are the first one that has been able to understand me all day,” she said. “All these humans do is either ignore me completely, pretend I’m not here, that I don’t exist; or they smile patronisingly at me as they hurry past. I hate humans.”

She was tied tightly to a bicycle rack by a metal lead around her neck. I looked up at my bus-stop and saw that my bus, the number 17, was just letting people on. I would wait for the next one, I decided.

“This is my favourite time of year,” I told her. “And my favourite time of day. Late autumn, just before the sun goes down. I love the crispness. Who tied you up and left you here?”

“Alan,” she said, “He always comes back for me. Eventually.”

“But it’s getting cold. And you’re shivering a bit. And you’re tied up like a fucking dog. Outside a shop. Next to other dogs. And bikes.”

“It’s because he loves me. And he does love me. Do you like this coat?”

“I do. It looks really warm, too.”

“You see. Alan loves me. He bought me this coat.”

“It’s a beautiful colour.”

“What’s a colour?”

I knelt down by her side and put another cigarette between her lips. I then sat next to her, facing the world; the queue of people all huddled under the bus shelter trying not to get rained on. Some would catch my eye, but then quickly look away. I leant over to the railings and untied the lead. I then lifted the other end over her head and threw it into the kerb.

“I prefer spring,” she said. “When you first stop needing your coat of an evening. And when rain brings out the smell of the flowers.”

“Come on, let’s go,” I said.

Without questioning anything, she stood up and, holding my hand, followed me to the bus-stop. We stepped on to the number 17 together.

“I’m sorry, but no dogs allowed on this bus,” the driver informed us, as I attempted to buy us two tickets.

“You what, mate? She’s travelling with me. And she’s not a dog!”

The driver ignored me and spoke only to the girl, “Look, I really am sorry, love, but I can’t let you bring him on the bus.”

I snarled. What was going on? I took this bus home every other day. I even knew the driver. His name was Carl!

“Carl! What are you saying? Why are you doing this? It’s me!”

Carl just looked at the girl sympathetically.

“I’m sorry. I really am. But would you mind getting him off of my bus now, please? You’re holding us all up.”

Without thinking, I took out my cock and started pissing on the floor.

“Oh, for fu…. That’s disgusting! Just get him off the bus now!” Carl shouted.

The girl and I stepped off of the bus, and as it pulled away the faces stared at us through the steamed up windows.

“How far is it to yours on foot?” the girl asked.

“Not too far. But we’re going to need to stop off for more cigarettes along the way.”


2 Responses to “The Mongrel”

  1. ithinkmylifejustpassedmebyJOPPAAAAAAAA September 26, 2013 at 3:37 pm #

    I like some of the descriptive writing here but I do feel it didn’t need an ending. Just let it drift.I would of ended it at “Come on, let’s go”.


    • Kris Mole September 26, 2013 at 4:21 pm #

      Perhaps. But when the story played in my mind last night for the first time, the most vivid part was the ending. Fuck knows where this story even came from…… The more I read it back to check it, the more I think it’s shit.

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