Abbey had walked those streets for years, as a child she had stood outside Marvel's corner shop wishing for treats, not the clinking bottles her mother always grasped on her drawing back of the shop door like a stage curtain. Now she slept there, wishing on stars for a toothbrush.
The kitten. The sole object of her attention, doting parent created a doting pet owner. Always it was stroked, and loved by the child. The fleas ended that, it had to live outside in the shed, the memory gets vague there, it ran away, she still cries fifteen years on.
A club, somewhere, small town minds and a short skirt. The blonde waitress doesn't mind being touched up, the visitor does. Barry puts his hands where he likes and throws a "lesbian" when they are removed. A blush & departure swiftly by the visitor, Barry follows, returns with a black eye.
