He withdraws clumsily, spraying the crumpled red dress she’s hitched to her waist. The youth sinks back against the graffiti and the urine, sobbing quietly in the alley gloom.
Oblivious through drink or worse, she abandons the jammed zip, stuffs the folded fivers between her breasts and fumbles for a cigarette.
A pale, pimpled face glows briefly in the Zippo flicker, his silhouette struggling to rescue damp jeans from the filth below.
‘Wassup?’ she slurs. ‘Don’t I know you?’
The weeping stops and from somewhere, a thin voice breaks the silence.
‘Yes Miss, Year 10 English.’