Joint

Met her in Porter. I’m reading Philip Larkin and she asks me what I’m reading, so I tell her “only the best poet who ever lived.”
“Oh,” she replies, “Keats?”
“Nope.” I say, trying my best to avoid telling a cute girl that her taste in poetry is flawed. “Larkin.” I say finally.
She’s a brunette with long hair and a white and red striped top. She’s got small breasts and a smile that says yes. She’s the kind of girl that you can throw about in the sack. And I did.
We smoked a joint and fucked for an hour, then she grabbed my cock and jerked and sucked me till I came in her face and she fell back on the bed, giggling.

Dreads

There is a girl that I nicknamed Dreads, for want of her real name. She works at a small shop, down by the canal, which allows you to make pots and paint them. She is tall and quite thin. She has dark brown hair and dark eyes that look sad. Her hair is in dreadlocks, which she wears up, so that the top of her head looks like an explosion of adders.
Most of the time I see her she is in the Porter struggling with the day’s crosswords, a well-chewed pen between her teeth. I want to tell her the joke about the crossword I have just started, the one where the clue is; ‘Overloaded Postman.’
She’d probably smile politely and ask, knowingly; ‘Any Letters?’