He was one of those guys with the electricity in the eyes and skin that smells like Roses or some kind of chocolates. He had that radio voice, full of airwaves, frequencies and good vibrations. He was something to look at, everyone agreed on that, including her sister who was normally choosy when it came to the guys and would not dream of dating anyone she had met in a Clinic.

His name was Citrus and when he two-stepped from the path of an oncoming joy-riders’ 4x4 car, or when he aimed a lazy kick at one of the Rats that lived in the filthy apartment, you could really think for a moment that he was dancing. He had grace. He could cut a long story short and it many times ended up in the bedroom, though just as often it ended up in court. He stole her clothes and her Microwave, sold her TV on Ebay, uploaded their private pix and videos onto Flickr/Insta with a caption that said Check THIS – She Used to Be My Girl. He was no good. His intentions was no good at all. He was not what he seemed.

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Charlene’s possible routes to revenge were kind of limited and living with no clothes, no Microwave and no TV in a mainly empty apartment was not very easy. She wrapped herself in a blanket to keep warm, then took some clothes (without asking) from a neighbour who was blind. It was law of the jungle round there, where she lived, or law of the something, but no one knew what. Charlene had not seen a jungle, except in the film called LICENSED INSANITY or UNDENIABLE – PROOF OF THE STATE.

Days passed. She watched the blind neighbour, each early morning and night, scouring the stairway and corridor on hands and grazed knees, searching by fingertips for her missing BASIC t-shirt and jeans. No Joy. No Joy. Charlene felt bad but did not admit her crime. Her philosophy was simple – if she could get money sure, she would have paid the stupid blind bitch back. But she did not have money, so that was an end of it.

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