‘It’s basically the same as an Old Fashioned, it’s just a bit quicker to make,’ I say, each hand twirling a bar spoon through two glasses. Probably ‘Aal fur coat and nee knickers’, as my mam would say. Great pains have been taken to appear visibly wealthy. His designer tie is loose, and he flicks open the top button of a monogrammed shirt an enormous watch cuffs his thick wrist. I offer them a Manhattan as a quicker alternative, and the leader of the pack scoffs. They burst in, shouting, red-faced, thoroughly impressed with themselves, and I’m stuck mixing Old Fashioneds for half an hour. Men in suits, marching down the street, twelve of them. I leave the limes, the taste of my last shot of tequila is still sour on the back of my tongue. I chop fruit in peace for an hour I kill six lemons and flay a pineapple. – I say two) and if I’m hungover (‘no’), then leaves me alone at the bar while he fannies on in the office. He whines at me for getting makeup on the door (again) and for failing to take the chairs down from the tables on the mezzanine. I do the bare minimum to open, and carefully sip water till Ryan gets in. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the door, repeatedly miss the lock with the key, and leave behind a smear of pale foundation. ‘You alright there, petal?’ asks the bus driver. It’s like trying to keep your head under shallow water you just can’t. I imagine taking a photo in A&E and sending it to Ryan yikes, guess I can’t come in! But I can’t make myself fall over. I imagine going over on my ankle, the bone snapping and breaking the skin. When the bus pulls over, I wobble on my heels.

I swallow it down the sandwich I ate at the bus stop is still identifiable by texture and flavour. I’m sick in my mouth on the bus into work. There is an aggression implicit in every use of the camera. Images which idealise are no less aggressive than work which makes a virtue of plainness.

Boy Parts by Eliza Clark