Broke-Ish [Completed]

Chapter 16

Short, eyebrow-less, limp, greasy pointless hair dyed jet black and painfully conflicting with his complexion. His porous skin looks like hasn't spent a day in its existence not sweating and I have been searching for his neck since I arrived. He reaches his hands over to mine that are firmly secured to my bag in my lap, while sitting on an arm free back free bar stool and if touches me I will leave.

"Oh wow," I lean back to deter his attention towards the bar.

"What's that?" his eyes open wide like a puppy dog and I laugh nervously trying to think of a follow up. He sounds like he's still waiting for his voice to break.

"Oh, just that drink over there, I haven't had it in years,"

"Do you want one? Excuse me," he calls over to the barman who doesn't respond because let's face it, this man commands zero attention. He could be sitting on the man on the horse statue in Wolverhampton city centre in a high vis vest, a flashing necklace and a singing Santa hat on his head and people would walk past without a look or wonder. He's wimpy, he's meek, he has no dress sense, small and squinty eyes, hands plump and plasticine looking and there's a constant expression of worry on his face. He's perfect!

Eventually the bar man comes over to us. He looks at me then looks at him, looks at me then looks at him, looks at me again, then looks at him and if someone doesn't speak in the next second I...

"What can I get ya?" he smiles. I give the barman my orders and send him on his way.

"So Ibrahim ," I say with a shrug of the shoulders, "Tell me a bit about yourself," I lean in a centimetre and try to look as interested as possible. He looks back at me surprised as though he has never been asked this question before in his life, which is I can believe. Then he answers me like he's been preparing for this his whole life, any minute know I'm expecting him to take out a projector and some item he prepared earlier. As he's talking about his mom, nan or/and neighbour my phone buzzes and I take the opportunity to have a short respite from this talking therapy session

Gee

Online

Gee: Why is mom at yours?

Liv: Because she lives there

Gee: What do you mean she lives there?

Liv??

Missed Call

Gee: Does dad know?

Liv: No dad doesn't know and her names Rain now

Gee: Her names what now? Liv wth is going on answer your phone

Liv: Can't I'm busy.

And with that I slide my phone back into my bag and offer an empathetic smile to Ibrahim who is now either talking about a recently deceased pet or recently deceased family member and his hands are creeping over to mine again. I pretend to sneeze and catch the contents of my faux sneeze in my hand, saved from his touch by allergies. I wonder how long I'll be able to keep this non-contact thing going on for.

Ibz buys and sells houses, specific houses. The house on the street with the cracked plaster, thin flaky wooden framed windows and a garden overrun by bushes, weeds, and foxes. The house with a tree that predates Morgan Freeman in the middle of the garden blocking any access to natural light and a selection of old and likely valuable, uncared for and untaxed cars in the bumpy driveway. The house where people posting useless home item catalogues skip and only the bravest of the brave takeaway leaflet distributers dare to push anything through the rusty, feather light letterbox. The house where the owner has never been seen but it is assumed he smokes a pipe and has brown stained finger tips, that house. He buys these types of houses, after the owners die I'm guessing as people who live in houses like that rarely just leave. He gives them a good airing out, a clean, several licks of paint on the outside, he trims back the bushes, trims down the grass, removes the tree, maybe.