Pose

LITTLE LEGS
 
“Do you know where I’m rubbing this phone?”
Little legs shivering inside the phone box looked furtively around.
“Jesus Tracey, this is torture. I need to see you,”
“Yeah, I know, but this will have to do for now. He’s getting suspicious. Yesterday he started sniffing round my handbag. He’s such a paranoid git,”
“Yeah well he’s got a point ain’ ‘e. I mean he’s right on the money; we are doing exactly what he thinks, yeah? Maybe we need to cool it down a bit…y’know…..Trace are you listening?”
“What? Oh yeah I’m still rubbing… wish it was you.”
Little legs closed his eyes and sighed. The rain battered the phone box which smelled of stale piss and fags. A crisp note of cheap musky perfume from the previous occupant cut through the fug. He imagined himself, box and all, spiralling slowly down into the depths of a deep dark sea, an old sepia snapshot floating on the surface. It showed a man in his twenties who would not have looked out of place in a seventies heavy metal band; long curly yellowish hair, sideburns, a few rings, beads and tattoos. A poor man’s Ozzy. His very short legs (hence the unimaginative nickname ) gave him an uneven look, with a seemingly oversize stocky upper body and bull head. Time had produced a tired washed out version of the same model: a few wrinkles around the eyes, a slight paunch, bald patch, receding temples. The intervening years had not been starred with achievement. All he owned fitted in the taxi he worked and slept in, notably two sets of clothes, mainly denim, some loose change and a tatty sleeping bag. On the end of the line in an expensive but tastelessly furnished semi sat Tracey, the taxi firm owner’s wife with whom he was having an ill advised and dangerous liaison. Her husband was his boss “The Otter” the owner of Viking taxis, a Cro- magnon like man of few words and simple thoughts, not averse to settling disputes with his club like fists or nearby heavy objects if he was feeling tired.