22 & not a clue

She had the kind of beauty that doesn't need or ask for make up. Three small brown moles on her wrists which were slender with thin brown hair which caught the light - perhaps she had been in the sun recently. Her long legs were folded under her, she sat on the tube as if they were on a sofa. She leant against a thick browed man who appeared to be miles away.

Every few seconds her head would lift up and she would stare at him and say something with a smile on her lips. He would nod and continue to stare off. The smile would leave the corner of her mouth and thin lines appeared across her forehead. Digging around in her handbag she produced a note and laughed, showing it to him. He eventually turned and looked at the note, his eyes moved upwards and finally met hers which were dancing in a beguiling way.

A slow and uncertain smile made its way across his swarthy face, catching the shadows from his facial hair. His back softened and he seemed to lean in towards her smile. She leant her head again on his shoulder. He lifted one hairy paw and stroked a few brown strands across her face, tucking them behind her ear and then stroking her neck.

She smiled.

At the bottom of a hill in a small Irish town there lies a newsagents that boasts a funny smell. The owner looked his best 30 years ago and hasn't changed since. His cream cardigan is grubby, his finger nails orange, tinged from many a year spent rolling tobacco. The darting pink of his tongue running along the paper as it rolls together to make yet another 'bine'.

The kids outside bounce the ball against the wall for another time. He stirs from his stool, paper crushed by his side to be brandished.  The door bell chimes in a rush as he storms through to shout unintelligably. A mixture of uniforms, green with badges embroidered on and black with pockets hanging off. High school and Grammar kids mooch around in this no man's land.

Resting at the bottom of this hill the shop is a divide between the wealthier end of town and the estates backing onto it. From 15:30 - 16:00 the kids loiter, in this lost section of time when they aren't quite expected home yet and don't quite want to leave. The grammar girls mingle with the high school boys who make jokes and lean against the wall without a care, ignoring them. Hockey boys dart the spit balls thrown their way and the girls giggle on.

Stan has seen them all come and go, white tights with brown leather shoes, short skirts with high heels and black bras under white shirts. His darting tongue running across paper after paper as nimble dirty fingers fold and roll. The stubs of his finger tips become black from newspaper ink as he thumbs through the papers slowly, waiting for that golden half hour each day.