Sven sat on the kurb, eating a packet of Oreos with a litre carton of skim milk. Red returned from the complex, and sat down next to him, stepping on the plastic bag he had ignored; about to flap away in the wind.
“This cost almost four dollars,” Sven sprayed black over the bitumen. “And its so good.”
Red stared into the sun. She wondered about that French lady in the paper who’d gotten that face transplant.
“Aren’t your grandparents in town?” Red imagined her face on her dog. Woofwoof!
“Aren’t they at your house?”
“Yeah, they’re at my house.”
“Aren’t they over for lunch?”
Sven wiped his mouth and realised how great the wind to sun ratio was: “There’s like, just the right amount of sun to wind right now. Oh hey - that was Ben.”
Red watched the car pass. “Why aren’t you having lunch with your family?”
“My granddad’s a fucking Vietnam vet, he verbally abuses me in the third person every twenty minutes in front of my parents. It starts with my lack of shoes, then it moves to my grades, and then how I smell - you want the rest? I’m full.” Sven gestured a mostly-eaten packet towards Red.
“They’re all broken.”
“Do you want them?”
“Fine. Can I have some milk.”
“Whatever. You should probably go see your grandparents.”
“The way I see it, its better for me not to rock up at all, than rock up late.”