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About Shymkent

Walk slow, talk soft. That’s my trick. They smell fear. Like dogs. Or desperation. I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’. *Why’m I even here?* Then I spot her. Leanin’ on a lamppost. Skirt’s too short. Eyes like Therese’s—searchin’. “You don’t know me,” she’d say. Like in the movie. But I see her. I always do.

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Then, outta nowhere, this kid runs up to me. He’s like, “Mister, mister! I saw the fire start!” I’m thinking, great, a witness! But then he goes on about how he was playing with fireworks. I’m like, “Seriously, kid? Fireworks? In a warehouse?” I could feel my blood boiling. Kids these days, man.

Goldsmiths jewellery shop leaves Weston