A short story for the CAKE.shortandSweet Wednesday Write In
The Bargain Bin
‘Excuse me, madam -’
Excuse me, excuse me. What does he want? Looking like a hard man with that shaved head. He thinks he’s helpful in navy polyester, a knight in branded armour. His voice is a buzz of excuse me, ex-cues-mee.
And I don’t know what she’s got to look at. Fucking tart. I mean, look at her. I don’t know how she can stand herself. I mean, god, she’s not just fat, she’s morbidly obese. Must be. Sweaty Freckles, that’s what I’ll call her this week. A dripping Barbie in a spaghetti string top that is surely two sizes too small for her. Obviously old Freckles didn’t get the memo that brassy hair clashes with harlot scarlet. A semicircle of sweat blooms under her armpits. Her bingo wings are like cookie dough; they wobble when she reaches for the top shelf.
Oh god, what’s that skinhead heavy looking at now? Prick. icks-cooos-mi Whatever.
I know where I’m going, same place every week – the Bargain Bin. Why call it a bin, I don’t know. We pay for the crap that’s in it. Sometimes.
Why is everything so expensive now. Even here. A pound doesn’t get what it used to, or maybe they’ve made shopping trolleys bigger to persuade you to buy more. Everything’s a pound, then you end up spending more than you intended and on crap you didn’t want. There are only so many bags of Haribo I can eat in the morning.
Not that mornings are much fun. It’s a slippery slope from Kyle to Loose Women, and everyone’s obsessed by sex. Even the ones who don’t deserve benefits are getting sex; their skinny, junky bodies rubbing together like dry sticks. Makes me sick. That’s my tax they’re getting.
Sex and tax: there’s not much left to talk about these days. Except money. There’s not much in the Bargain Bin this week, only a bashed tin without a label. Load of rubbish. Oh well, into the bag it goes.
‘Excuse me, madam – ‘
Oh piss off will you.
(Word count: 343)