WLTM

Butcher’s shop, downtown. Marcus inhaled through his nostrils. What a sweet perfume. You could bottle that essence into a vaporiser and spray it out in a rosy mist. He’d buy it, for one.

The meat in the display lay on squares of AstroTurf; a thoughtful touch, evocative of the grass the cow had once grazed on, a bridge between its idyllic past and unpleasant destiny. Unpleasant for the cow anyway. The haunches of meat were planted with miniature flags, 100% British, and the price per kilo. He imagined the little flag poles easing into the flesh, barely offering any resistance.

The queue shortened. Phone. Thumb to Twitter. Retweeted two contradictory things, to throw the algos off the scent.

His turn. He ordered a single steak. The finest cut on offer if the butcher would be so kind. The butcher weighed it, bagged it and sealed it with a practiced somersaulting twist. Expensive, but it was the least he could do. The steak slipped snug as a wallet into the pocket of his Barbour jacket.

Barely a minute up the road and someone was calling his name.

‘Marcus? Sorry, is it?’

Alarming. Nobody should know him round these parts. Homo Sapiens. A female. ‘Y-es.’ He said, she looked vaguely familiar somehow. Roundish face with pinchable cheeks.

She looked at her watch, ‘I know. Way too early, not very cool.’

It hit him. He pulled out his phone, tapped on it a few times and then looked from the screen to her face and back again.

‘Does this help?’ she took off her hat and adjusted her hair, and looked at him at a slight angle.

He checked the phone again, and nodded slowly.

‘Great,’ she thrust a hand towards him. ‘Aisha. Nice to properly meet you.’

He forced a grin onto his face using his face muscles. The trick was to bend the lips upwards at the edges.

‘Is your face alright?’

It was the cold, making it hard to judge. ‘Fine,’ he said.

She put her woollen hat back on, ‘I knitted this myself,’ she said and rubbed her hands together.

‘It’s fetching.’

She smiled, she had nice teeth. ‘Bit nippy out here. Table’s at seven thirty.’

In his opinion, a reservation hadn’t been necessary for a pizza restaurant but compliance was an endearing quality, he’d read.

‘Let’s go for a quick drink first.’

In that spirit he let her link her arm through his and lead him towards the nearest pub. As her body rubbed his, he could hear the friction against the steak’s plastic bag in his pocket. That bloody steak! Quite literally.

He had a glass of the house red, Aisha, rather unsuitably, a Crabbies on ice.

‘With these things,’ she said pointing at them both, ‘I always think it’s best to get the skeletons out the closet. You want to go first?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your ex, want to tell me about her?’

‘Not really.’

‘Okay, I’ll tell you about mine then.’

She then spoke at considerable length about her ex. A Nigel. They had met at a party; Nigel was a friend of a friend. Funny, kind. They dated, got married, had a daughter; Isabella, now five and a real handful! Aisha woke up one morning, looked at Nigel and realised she didn’t love him, and wasn’t sure if she ever really had.

It was all very entertaining stuff and by the time she’d finished they were late for their table.

‘Come on!’ she grabbed him by the hand, ‘I’ve got a two for one!’

They decided to share a bottle of wine and as he sat, perusing the menu, he could smell the steak, an abattoir undertone that had him reaching for his glass and swilling the wine. Released aromas; vanilla, deadwood and of course, cherry.

‘Have you decided?’ Aisha asked. ‘Should we doughball? Or is that too bready?’

He wanted a Pepperoni, but was worried it would repeat on him. ‘If I order a Margherita, will you think me dull?’

‘Or, maybe I’d think, now here’s a man who isn’t afraid to be who he is. There’s nothing worse than a try hard.’

So, he ordered it. When the waiter had gone, she rolled her eyes at him. ‘Margherita? Jesus, you’re boring.’

He was sipping red wine and it snorted out of his nose. ‘Entrapment!’ he protested. ‘And you? A Marinara? That’s just a Margherita without the cheese.’

She laughed and shrugged. ‘If we’re getting reductive here; at what point does a pizza lose its identity and just become a bit of bread with tomato on?’

He shook his head and dabbed at the red wine stain on his shirt. ‘But no cheese? Really.’

‘I’m a vegan.’

He was glad he hadn’t ordered the Pepperoni.

She leaned in. ‘Tell me Marcus, do you eat meat?’

This felt important. ‘I’m cutting down.’

*

Pleasant meal, it was. He offered to pay but they ended up splitting the bill, (a pittance with Aisha’s e-coupon), and on the pavement outside she asked if he wanted to go for another drink.

‘I have a little business to attend to. Better not.’

‘Business? After all that wine?’

‘Well, quite.’

She shuffled on her feet, went on tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Well, thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘It’s been terrific.’

Aisha set off in the direction of the station.

Marcus stuffed his hands in his pockets, one met the yielding flesh steak still in there, it felt almost warm. He walked for some time until he found a payphone, took out a scrap of paper and dialled. He let it ring twenty times before hanging up.

Marcus walked ten minutes along the commercial street, then took a side road. In the bit of his wallet where he kept his coins, he got out a single silver key, tried it in the door and it opened. It was a typical lobby with an empty marble counter where the building attendant was stationed until 5pm.

He took the stairs to the third floor; and by the second floor he could hear a dog barking. A throaty, repetitive bark. It was still going when he made it to the landing of the third, a light blinked on automatically. There were six flats here. He approached door D, the dog on the other side was scratching the door with its paws, now barking double time. Yes, it was annoying. He flicked open the letterbox, there were no lights on inside, but he could see the shadow of the dog leaping up and down. Pointer, apparently, not that he could see it.

Marcus removed the steak from the bag, prepared it, and passed it through the letter box. The barking stopped.

‘Good boy.’ Marcus whispered and let the letterbox flap fall. Then, he went next door, to flat C, posted the key through the letterbox. It landed with a light dingle on the floor. A moment later an envelope appeared under the door. Marcus picked it up, popped it in his pocket and headed down the stairs.

He whistled a tune. Aisha would have made it home by now. It would be nice to see her again.