The Sink

ohn ground a cigarette butt on the ashtray built into the top of the litter bin. He checked the time on his phone and drained an energy drink, crushing the empty can in his hand and popping it in the mouth of the bin. It was better in these circumstances to be absolutely punctual. For once he was spitting on his own doorstep, but needs must and all that. He had timed it so after he had visited the sex worker for a half hour session he could then catch a 2 o’clock showing of ‘John Wick 3’ at the nearby generic cinema on the charmless retail park, just around the corner from the ugly functional flats he stood before like a bathetic sentinel. That way he had an alibi to hand if anyone spotted him. John checked no one was around and lit a one skin joint and glanced at his phone again. 12.50pm. He’d been standing there for around 15 minutes and thankfully he’d seen no fellow punter exit the block. The very thought of seeing who had preceded him made him nauseous. She’d texted him time (1pm) street name and flat number. The flats were numbered 1 to twenty in 4 blocks containing 5 one bedroom flats spread over 2 floors. He checked the Vivastreet profile again to make sure he’d got the price right.

Selena, 32, oral and sex with condom, rimming(receiving) £60 for thirty minutes. Strictly no CIM, bareback or A Levels. OWO £20 extra. John had five crisp 20 pound notes in his wallet that he’d got from the cash machine at the corner shop. He felt weak legged off the joint and paranoid. John had smoked it to take the edge off his nervousness and he enjoyed being sucked off stoned but it had accentuated the anxiety he felt because of the familiarity of the area and its close proximity to his home. Some teenagers were walking towards the flats, passing a cigarette and a can of lager between themselves. He was feeling genuine panic now, too stoned to deal with the mildest of meatspace interactions. 12.55. Fuck it. His mind was trying to will his legs to purposefully stride to the flat entrance but all he managed was a breathless stagger to the doorway. He stabbed a finger at button number 9 on the intercom.

She’d buzzed him in before he had a chance to introduce himself. ‘Open,’ came the staticky voice. He pushed open the door and went into the block and was greeted by a row of bin lockers with the residents’ numbers daubed on each one. All was grey, from the battleship coloured walls to the concrete floor no one from the council had bothered to tile or carpet. She stood at the top of the first flight of stairs, a forlorn, strangely ghost like figure in a blue hooded top, the hood pulled down to cast her face in shadow, black leggings and tatty gold sandals. Her toenails were covered in faded red nail polish.