Wet Mugs

The first time the old man came in he was quick. He got his Mail, paid with the exact change and went. The second time he stayed a bit longer, got himself a Crunchie bar, and said no thanks when I asked if he wanted a bag. The third time he took even longer, paused by the newspaper stand, scratched absently at his arse, and looked at the headlines on the tabloids and broadsheets before taking the Mail.

After that he did the same every time: came in, picked the Mail up, then stopped and looked at the red tops, the Sun and Mirror, sometimes peeling them open to take a peek inside before hurriedly closing them and coming over to the counter.

I imagined a wife in the car outside and comments about not putting wet mugs back into the cupboard after emptying the dishwasher, the water goes all everywhere, you know.

Eventually, I said something. The Mirror was on offer. He slammed his money down and said, I’m not a pervert, you know, shoved his paper under his arm, and left.

He never came back.