Guarded By Him

u n o

*+Clementine+*

"Move out the fuckin' way." The harsh words of the geezer beside me registers before the pungent smell radiating off of him creeps in and slaps me right up the nose. It is eight a.m. in the morning and already he reeks of beer...and piss.

I grimace and stifle a full body shudder as he turns around and finally regards who he was talking to in such a rude manner—me. His face has blotchy patches of red all over it and his body can't seem to stop shaking, confirming my earlier suspicions of alcohol. Maybe even drug use.

A creepy grin grows on his lips and reveals blackened and crooked teeth before they disappear and a whistle emits from his mouth. If I thought his body stank, his breath is an entirely different story.

"Well, would ya look at that," He rubs his bloated stomach with one hand and simultaneously picks at his tooth with the other. "What's a sweet one like you doin' out 'ere all alone?" He drawls.

His concentrated cockney accent does not shock me at all. What shocks me is the way his tone and mannerisms switched as soon as he realised who was on the receiving end of it all. Men.

A sweet smile brightens my face before I proceed. "Same reason you're here, sir. That is, of course, if you're here to catch flights and not the numbers of girls who are undoubtedly at least twenty years younger than you."

Saying that was being generous. The man is at the least fifty-five years of age and that is everything compared to my mere eighteen years on this planet. Nevertheless, I bat my eyelashes and maintain my honey-dripping smile as the man sneers and eyes me like I had him permanently blacklisted from every pub in England.

Kill them with kindness. They didn't call me Candy in secondary school for the sake of it.

He stuffs his presumably sweaty palms into his pockets while retreating and muttering colourful words in hopes to bother some other young lady. Thoughts and prayers, truly.

I purse my lips in mock disappointment before returning my attention to the endless trail of suitcases disappearing and reappearing on the baggage carousel. Though I am not waiting for my luggage to suddenly make an appearance there, I have been watching the same dance for at least fifteen minutes and nothing seems to have changed.

The line I am stood in is extremely long and I suppose watching groups of people choose London as a summer holiday destination is fascinating to me. I cannot comprehend why anyone would choose London as a summer holiday destination.

The weather is shitty and the people are shittier. There is nothing pleasant about packing an abundance of bikinis but instead having to spend your converted money on umbrellas and raincoats.

I choose to settle on the idea that the unfortunate souls who are making their way out of the spinning doors are here for strictly work purposes.

I believe I could think of a thousand other things I could be doing right now other than waiting in the line of Gatwick airport with sweaty bodies and fussy children surrounding me. I also bet that I could name them all before reaching the front of this ridiculously long line.

As exciting and enticing as playing lifeguard at a luxury beach resort in Mallorca sounds, my eyes internally roll as my mind circles back to the real reason I am here.