Brant went:

‘Ahh…’

The hooker finished up, wiped her mouth and got to her feet. Brant stretched, said:

‘There’s brewskis in the fridge, grab us two.’

She glared at him, wanted to shout:

‘Get them yourself, yer fucking pig!’

But she’d known him longer than she wanted to remember, went to the kitchen, rinsed her mouth, spat, said:

‘Good riddance.’

There was a small mirror over the sink and she checked her face. The reflection told the harsh truth: a tired hooker with way too much mileage, the lines of twenty years and all of them hard. Brant from the other room:

‘What, you brewing them? Get your tush in here.’

She grabbed the beers and headed back. He’d put on his trousers, which was a relief, and he tapped the coffee table, said:

‘Plant them here, babe.’

She stared at the table, apparently lost. He asked:

‘You deaf? Plonk them on here.’

‘You don’t have coasters?’

He leant over, grabbed a can, popped the tab, gulped half, belched, said:

‘If you’re not having that, slide it on over.’

She pulled the top, took a ladylike sip. This amused him and he asked:

‘Teach you that at finishing school?’

She looked at him, said:

‘Yeah, the Mile End Road. They’re real big on etiquette.’

He finished the beer, crushed the can and lobbed it over his shoulder, asked:

‘Got any smokes?’

She tried not to sigh, got her handbag, threw over a pack. He caught it, cursed.

‘Silk Cut? The fuck are those?’

‘’Cos of my chest.’

He tore off the filter, said:

‘You standing there? Light me up.’

The phone rang. Brant reached over, grabbed it, said: