Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 111775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
I stopped by the Greek takeaway as planned on my way home to collect my food bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t get any baklava, but I did get some chicken gyros and a slice of syrupy custard pie I was looking forward to trying. My stomach rumbled thinking about the food. I was always starving right after I finished work, my stomach rumbling all through the bus journey home.
I was hungry a lot. If I wasn’t actively eating, then I was planning what I was going to eat later. It made sense it would preoccupy me so much. There was a time in my life when I didn’t know where the next meal was coming from.
“It does smell good, doesn’t it?” I replied cheekily as I slotted my key in the door and stepped inside, hearing Bob and Siobhan’s amused laughter in my wake. Smiling to myself, I turned on the television, then went into the kitchen to plate up my food. Thursday was my TV night. I recorded episodes of my favourite shows during the week, then binged them all as a treat on a Thursday.
I was sufficiently stuffed by the time I’d finished eating, but like last night, it was hard to get into the shows I was watching. I had difficulty focusing. My thoughts kept returning to him, how he’d ignored me when I spoke. But why? He could’ve at least acknowledged me with a nod or something.
I lost myself in wondering about him again. What was he doing right now? Was he spending the night with someone, or was he alone? Did he think about me as I thought of him?
Probably not, given the way he ignored me when I spoke to him.
There was a bit of a commotion outside, distracting me from my wandering thoughts, so I went to the window and peered through the curtains. A group of drunk people were making a nuisance of themselves. They looked like professional types, too, and from what I could hear, they’d been attending a retirement party for one of their colleagues. I decided they’d probably move on in a few minutes, but then five minutes turned to ten, ten to fifteen, and soon enough, they’d been out there making a racket for almost half an hour. I returned to my window, considering how I might gently encourage them to move along, when Siobhan’s window creaked open from above.
“Don’t you lot have homes to go to?!” my neighbour shouted down at them in annoyance.
“Sir, it’s only nine o’clock,” a man replied, and his friends snickered.
“There are elderly people living in this neighbourhood, I’ll have you know, and nine is too late to be making a racket.”
“Jaysus, relax ya old biddy,” the man responded, a cruel slant to his mouth, and I was instantly furious. Yes, he was drunk, but there was no need to be so rude, first calling Siobhan a “sir” and then referring to her as an “old biddy.” Something in his eyes told me he was a mean sort. He wore a suit, his tie loosened and his shirt unbuttoned at the top.
I could just imagine Siobhan blessing herself and praying to God for patience. The entire exchange was muted on my end because I hadn’t opened my window yet. I was considering coming to her defence when suddenly Bob’s front door flew open, our seventy-year-old neighbour wielding a walking stick as he marched towards the group. Most of them spotted him and quickly scarpered, but that one guy who’d been giving Siobhan cheek remained.
“Come on, then. Take your best shot, old man,” he taunted, and my blood began to boil. The guy thought it was okay to intimidate elderly people outside their homes? What a piece of work.
Bob swung at him, but the drunk guy easily dodged being hit. Without thinking, I was already slipping on my shoes, phone in hand as I automatically dialled 999. By the time I got out the front door, the drunk had somehow managed to take the walking stick from Bob and was making a joke out of swinging it at him.
“Drop the stick and get going,” I ordered, forcing authority into my voice I didn’t feel. “I’ve called the Gards, and they’ll be here any minute.”
The man had the audacity to scoff as he looked me up and down. “Sure, they will, love. You’ll be waiting ‘til Christmas for those lazy bastards to show their faces.”
Oh, he had the gall to call me “love.” Now, I really was fuming. “What the hell is wrong with you? Does it make you feel good to terrorize people outside their homes?”
He grinned. “Yeah, it kind of does.”
“You’re a scumbag.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. I had a lot of experience dealing with people who were drunk or high off their faces, mainly my mother and her boyfriends. With people like that, there was often a level of self-hatred going on, which might be the case with this guy. Did he just not care? Well, it appeared he cared a little because a siren sounded in the distance, and he suddenly dropped Bob’s walking stick and hurried away. I picked it up and returned it to my neighbour.