saturday in the car park

saturday in the car park behind my block of flats. me and the camry come back from the market, string bag full of white fruit and veg, and stopped short of practicing parking by an interloping black commodore in my space.

the notes i write for windscreens are terser every weekend. at first, 'hi! i think you've parked in my spot! please call me when you go so i can move my car' has given way to: 'next time you get towed [gddm fkr].'

swearing like tourettes itself. where the fk am i going to park, fkn brunswick st etaggers gdm your brunching ... gated communities now i get it ... fk fk fk every fkn saturday a new fkn commodore. that type of thing.

i look up at the flats. a wall of windows catches the full winter sun. a girl on the first floor sits in the window, long brown hair gleaming toppling down. a bare leg drawn up. if she's painting her nails in the sun, i think, she's a gdm parody of herself. but she isn't. she's squeezing her ingrown hairs.

at least something is right with the world.