I swilled the mixture of blood and toothpaste and spit around my mouth and let it dribble out spoiling the perfect white of the sink.  My teeth were crooked and stained the same mustard colour as the walls of old pubs. I ran the nail of my thumb along them and think about how they barely fit in my mouth, all competing for space and purpose like the shops and houses on the terraced streets I grew up on, before all the broken down charm was neutralised by the great renewal, that never ending rhinoplasty, that glass and steel assassination.  I splashed my face with water and stared hard into my own eyes reflected in the mirror.  

 "The first girl I ever kissed is dead”
“What the fuck am I meant to do with that information?”
“I dunno, it’s just interesting we were both kids at the same time, I kissed her and now she’s dead”
“I don’t think that means anything, you’re talking total shit”
“It’s a connection to death, a palpable link”
“Sometimes you’re so pretentious it makes me sick"
“Death is the currency of change, always has been, always will”
“You should copyright that and sell it to the army, it would make a good slogan, the army always needs good slogans”
“Did you put the key back?”
“Yes”
“She’s really dead you know, I met a guy I knew as a kid in the supermarket and he told me, she had some rare incurable bone disease, she died last month”

...