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The confessions of a justified sinner.

A smouldering cigarette hangs flaccidly from the corner of her mouth and theres a bottle of something nasty at her side. She could smile so sweetly but the world doesnt deserve a smile. So she scowls.

Shes just sitting there/ large breasts thrust out beneath her white blouse/ legs crossed high so no one can fail to notice the expanse of smooth dark shaved flesh stretching from her ankle to her thigh.

The Brazilian points at the bottle beside her/ motions for you to join her. *You are English?* she asks stubbing out the butt of her cigarette on the wall.

You shake your head. *Scottish.*

She seems confused but nods and passes you the bottle. You allow a few drops of the vile liquor to trickle over your tongue and the woman laughs as your face contorts.

*It is very cheap* she advises. Taking the bottle from your hand she puts her lips round the neck and gulps. A few drops of liquid dribble from the corner of her mouth and you blush. The Brazilian wipes her lips and chin with the back of her hand. *Would you like to walk with me?* she asks as the empty bottle thuds onto muddy grass and rolls.

You stare into those dark eyes and shrug. Might be fun to have a friend here who can show you around.

She seems to study you a moment Rachel. What does she see? Thick shoulder-length black hair. Melancholy green eyes. You are usually quite a pale girl but the cruel Sun has burned your face and arms/ turning you an unhealthy red. Like a crustacean scuttling from the boiling pot. Under your arms and between your breasts your t-shirt is stained dark with sweat. You must look strange to her Rachel. Almost alien.

The woman gets to her feet/ kicks off her sluttish red shoes - discarding them where they land - and walks bare-foot in front of you. Her peroxide hair reaches to the small of her back/ bouncing as she walks. *What is your name?* she asks/ the words floating across her shoulder.


*Rachel? I like that. Its from the Bible no? Im Maria* she says. *Maria Helena Marquez.*

You catch her up/ trying not to make it too obvious that youre watching her breasts move beneath the material of her blouse. Top buttons undone. Droplets of sweat trickling into her cleavage.

Large-breasted women have always fascinated you for some reason. You glance self-consciously down at your own smallish bosom. (I refuse to be intimidated. Theyre only tits. Weve all got them.)

Maria shoots you a strange look.

(So why of all people did Gavin have to go and shag Leanne Nesbit? It wasnt the size of her cerebral cortex that got him so hot under the waistband was it? Shit. Dont think about that. Youll only make yourself bitter girl.)


*Huh?* You havent heard a word shes said.

*I said I see you here on the beach every morning. You are always alone.*

*Aye well. Im on holiday.* you mumble.

*No husband?*

Shaking your head: *Ive got a boyfriend but were not getting on too great.*

Maria stops and looks at you/ lips curling into a snear. *Men are no good. You dont need a man Rachel. They are shits. BIG SHITS.* She spits this out with the bitterness of too much experience.

*Do you have a husband?* you ask.


So maybe I should tell you about the street where I live.

If you head off the East End of Princes Street up the Bridges and just keep going till your feet get sore (thats if youre a lazy cow like me) youll arrive at Clerk Street. Its not a bad place to live really. Bit noisy with all the cars/ buses/ motorbikes/ taxis/ etcetera grinding to and from Princes Street but you dont have far to go to get whatever you need:

~the bank
~munchies (theres a great curry place just a few blocks away)
~guitar strings
~and of course a wide variety of sanitary products to suit all your feminine hygiene needs

(Which is my pal Jans cue to start lecturing us about toxic shock syndrome.)

Clerk Streets not too bad a place

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