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Adam Thorpe
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what she was on about.
The girl is pretty, she can
tell. Frizzy hair shorn short,
ear dangling a huge silver
ring like a moon. Good
healthy skin, maybe half-
Jamaican or something.
Suzie has skin that she’s
stopped blaming Nivea
for. It is prone to rashes
and sudden patches of
red. Right now in the cold
weather it looks as if she’s
been trying to cheesegrate
her cheeks. She is saved
by what all the boys tell
her is a mouth beyond
mouths and green eyes
that disturb other people’s
relationship goals. And
her thick, coppery hair.
Oh, and perhaps her body.
Well, of course her body.
Please distract me from
Suzie’s body, the call goes
out on Twitter.
Jasper told her once, if not
twice, that her body was
at ease with herself. He
was drawing her nude on
the bed. Recumbent life
class. ‘Sunlight and water,’
he said, which she’d heard
somewhere else, maybe
a poem, maybe an advert
for soap. She has a sinewy
waist which she is scared
will fatten like everybody
else’s. She is sure, looking
down at it now, it is
creasing too much at the
navel-stud. Muffin tops,
almost. Watch what you
eat. Only green stuff, like
a botanical garden is on
my plate. Or better, skip
lunch. Drink much less.
She has another little jet-
black stud in her ear which
offsets her redhead’s pale
skinandmakesher look, for
some reason, slightly waif-
like, slightly dangerous.
That’s what the mirror in
the pub toilets tells her,
every time. When it’s not
depicting her as a Francis
Bacon.