I saw a boy
walking towards me carrying two instruments slung over his left lurched shoulder,
one clearly a guitar case and the other may have been a ukulele, perhaps a
mandolin in disguise. He held limply on to a wireless amp hanging by his right
side and wore all black; a sixth form suit, damp hair, pale emo skin with a
disenfranchised smirk. Two parts apathy three parts attitude. What made me
swoon pathetically at this kid who padded past me was the green-top milk riding
in his pocket, just on show enough to flirt with the imagination of us city
commuters that suburbia is romantic. I wanted a teenager again.
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