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The Rum Punch

She is peeing in public.

It is around three in the morning. Saturday night. Tottenham Court Road. By the station she relieves herself. Her pissing arrests the attention of one or two late passersby. The late and cold passersby are now warm with their phones. They cheer up, appreciate her. They capture her staggered squatting. Her cone heels challenge her. She falls off on the waters she has broken. Her body wriggles as the fish in the mud. Her strapless mini dress maximizes her magnificence. Her long naked legs fight in the air.

"You," I say. "Take my hand."

She takes. She gets up. She is soft and snowy and smelly.

Along the isle a car screeches. Out comes a man in black. At her he shouts. "Get in the car, bitch."

He pushes her in the back seat. Then looks at me. "Who the hell are you?"

"Me? I justó"

A blow bumps into my face. I fall off where she fell off. I bleed and bathe in her discharge.

The man laughs out. "Enjoy the rum punch." And the car flies away.

Story by:

Rahad Abir

12 July 2017