by Rita Sebestyen
There is lipstick on the glass.
Streetwalker is thirsty.
But there is lipstick on the brim of the glass, and there is a black smidgen floating on the top of the water in there.
‘Can you please print me the catalogue of the other flat, too? You know, the one you said I might also be interested in.’
The agent is very unhappy with all these special requests. First the cup of water and now the catalogues to be printed. The agent struggles with Streetwalker’s accent, too. The agent does not want to struggle.
Wide windows filled with pictures of derelict houses on sale.
Two patrols are passing by on their horses.
‘This is the worst time, really’ the agent sparks a conversation, ‘The day of the match.’
‘Yeah’ Streetwalker cannot raise their eyes from the water tightly embraced by that dirty-lipstick-y glass, burdened with the black morsel like a mouldy cherry on the top of the cake in a twisted tale. The water, the one that could bring some sweet relief, is imprisoned in between.
The agent gathers that there will be no quiet, no peace until some service is given.
‘So, the second one… you have not seen that yet… that can be converted into a two-bedroom flat.’
Streetwalker sighs.
The water sits unnerved in the dirt. Catch me if you can.
‘I can call you when it’s available for viewing.’
‘Right,’ Streetwalker has reached to a decision. ‘Call me when the owner is ready.’ Deep sigh. One long step to the door. ‘Bye.’
‘The water!’ yells the agent with a suddenly risen hospitality.
Streetwalker shut the door behind their back, ‘No thanks’.
