He wears a beige leather jacket, and his jeans are tight around the crotch but loose in the leg. He dyes his hair yellow blonde, his wet look gel holds the teeth marks from his comb.
“Cheers Boss” he says to the driver as he skips off the bus, landing in a confident yet non-threatening swagger. There is a desperation to his style that makes those around him a little uneasy. He was at the top of his game in 1996, his middle parting an unflinching monument to those days. His knuckles are almost transparent, he is holding on so tight to the days when he was a young man, one of the boys. He will be 22 forever.
He goes into a quiet looking pub as the bus passes around the corner. Tonight, on this warm bank holiday weekend he will drink and he will dance. He will try and he will fail, until in a scene he has known many times before, he will find himself behind a bus stop at kicking out time with this hands wrapped tightly around the pale neck of an 18 year old girl that said no.
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