Like A Poem (CRACKFIC)

Primark On Toast

He found her the next morning, on a bench outside a Primark. 

Perhaps found isn't the right word. To say "found" in this instance would give the impression that he was looking for her, but in truth he wasn't sure if he was looking for anything until he had already seen her, by which point he became convinced. More accurately, he was distinctly aware that he was searching for something in the streets, but unsure of what he was looking for or for what purpose. In this case technically he did "find" her (at least in an alternative definition of the word), but in a more indirect way, the way in which you may come back from a holiday to Wales to "find" that you left the oven on the whole time or how you may look up from this Very Serious Piece of Literature to "find" someone has been drawing a caricature of you the whole time, and now you may "find" that you owe them a tenner. 

Whatever the best way to say it is, while out for his walk into town-the town of Catshitsbury, by the way-he felt the oddest sensation that he was looking for something. He caught himself scouring the faces of strangers and cross examining every pigeon. He almost interrogated a rat. And yet he was still completely in the dark about what it is he was actually searching for-until he "found" that he had already "found" it.

The blue had progressed up her body, like when you put on a pair of blue skinny jeans but they don't quite fit at first and then you spend 2 minutes shimmying the waist up inch by inch until your body is in the jeans and they're so uncomfortable you end up tearing them off and wondering why you didn't just buy a pair of jeans that actually fit. It was like that. But she was still as tantalizing as she had been on the day they first met, her porous surface promising carbohydrate-filled sustenance and her form hunched over a book of poetry. Despite the mould encroaching on her like a pair of aforementioned jeans, she still had the same poise and sense of grace that had enamoured Hardly to her on the day that he first met-and then promptly forgot-his manic pixie dream bread. She was like a puzzle wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a wet dream for some weird nice-guy act who didn't really understand social cues, and Hardly was the wettest dreamer of them all.

He sat next to her, drumming his hands into his well fitted jeans, as the author wondered why he kept coming back to the jeans talk. (Honestly I don't even own blue jeans, the dye tends to run and stains my skin and I get more gender euphoria out of having my legs disappear in low light.) He umm-ed and err-ed and hmm-ed and hurr-ed and made all manner of noises while trying to figure out how to talk to a woman, as he'd never been near one before.

She flipped a page.

"Good morning ma'am, may I look

at the manner of poems within your book?"

It was the first thing that came to his mind, and the second thing that came to his mind was a stream of self-fellatio about how clever and witty he was to have thought of that on the spot. The slice of bread lifted her head and fixed him with a seductive look that probably would have hit home harder if she had any eyes to speak of. 

She silently passed him the collection and he gawked at what was inside. He couldn't believe it! There was no mention of the word society anywhere in the poem she had bookmarked and it didn't even rhyme. It just seemed to be a menagerie of metaphorical language and imagery, which was of course the exact opposite of what a poem should be.

"I'd have notes written all over the page." She said over his shoulder. "If I had hands with which to hold a pen." He noted, then, that she didn't seem to have the  same mind powers that Greggs had displayed.

"Yeah, it's definitely different to the poems I write." He said dismissively.

"It's my favourite." She said, swinging her lower half. Being a small slice of bread, the bench on which she sat must have seemed mountainous, but she handled herself as though she wasn't bothered by the potential of falling to her death, though maybe that made sense for a slice of bread. Hardly scoffed, knowing just from the sentiment that she had no idea what she was talking about, and he handed the book back to her.

"I'm sure you remember me?" he said, puffing out his chest.

"The delivery man, I remember." She replied vaguely.

"What?! No, I'm-"

"Relax." She laughed gently, closing the book and setting it to one side through a series of complicated bending of her bready body. "I'm messing with you. You're from the Great Worm Rescue."

"Well, most people just call me Hardly. Hardly Cock." He stuck a hand out self importantly, then remembered that she had no hands with which to shake it, and quickly bit the hand off so he could grow a new one later. "Hardly Cock from Piss Street Avenue."

"They call me Bread."

"That's not a very creative name." Clearly the writer of the story had run out of good name ideas, or so Hardly thought. He deserved a flick on the forehead for that one but there were no appropriate characters around to deliver sweet sweet justice for the narrator, so it could wait.

"Names are just things, Hardly. They don't define people." Bread said, and shook her head with what seemed like a small smile. 

The two sat in silence for a moment. Hardly thought about how whimsical and fun his companion was while Bread thought of nothing in particular. He reckoned that she was thinking about how intelligent and deep he was but once again, she was thinking of nothing in particular. Definitely not that.

"well, speaking of things. Would you like to do something together sometime?"

"Something?"

"Like a date."

Bread would have had an easier time eyeing him if she actually possessed eyes, but she still nodded. "Surely you weren't wandering around town looking to ask me that?"

Hardly had actually come to town in search for a certain brand of tomato ketchup but he still laughed at her joke because he was a nice guy. "Can I get your number?"

"no. I don't like the internet." Bread shrugged. "But you can pick me up at the blue dumpster behind the poundland on 2nd street on Wednesday, sometime between 8:35 and 8:39 in the evening. My attention span only lasts for four minutes" she explained "So it's easier to make the timeframe as small as possible." She tipped herself off the edge of the bench and landed with the book she was reading on her back. "I'll see you then!"

"See you then!" Said Hardly enthusiastically, watching as she walked away from him, and waiting for her to look back.

She faded from sight without looking back at him even once.