“It’s called Mini-Munchman” said Sharon, not looking up from the tiny yellow object in her hands. Marc peered over her shoulder, close enough to breath the smell of hairspray and her mother’s Chanel perfume.
“You mean its a Pac-Man ripoff?” he laughed into a silence broken only by cheap electronic chirps. Then, after a moment, “can I have a go?”
They sat together on the sofa then, passing the game to and fro, the warmth of their touch transferred through cheap plastic buttons. Between turns each of them glanced at the TV. Something about the miners strike on the news, then quickly flicked through to rest on Jules Holland and Paula Yates. Echo and The Bunnymen on The Tube. Sharon called it shit and hit the ‘mute’ button. Marc agreed in spite of himself. Some things were more important than music, after all.
The electric blips soundtracked McCulloch’s lips and big hair, prompting Marc to smile in spite of himself. He slouched further down in the worn sofa, resting his head on the tartan blanket thrown over the back cushions. Cat hairs clung to his cream Matinique shirt and he idly plucked them off, waiting his turn on the game.
“Hey Sharon” he said, savouring the heat of her thigh next to his through her pink leather trousers. “You want to go to the pictures next weekend?”
Sharon barely blinked. Marc knew because he was watching her eyes closely. Two brown pools that tempted you in with the promise of a warm embrace then cut you deep with a cold hard shoulder. Oh sure, he knew all about eyes. He looked at his own for too long every morning in the bathroom mirror and fought the urge to pierce them with the tiny points of his Rotring drawing pens. Sure, he knew all about eyes.
Sharon turned hers to him and passed over the game. “Your go” she breathed, and that was all.