'Memento' by Karen Jones

She confuses Jacques Cousteau with Marcel Marceau. She drinks Midori, but has no idea how to pronounce it. She wears shoes that defy gravity and will, in time, change the shape of her calves and the grace of her gait: she knows she looks damn good in them now, and now is all that matters to a girl like Suzi.

I’ve watched her for months, studied her appearance, her mannerisms, her act. Know when her mood changes, when her breasts swell for a few days each cycle. I see her – completely.

But Suzi has a disability; she’s blind when it comes to men like me. We have no place in her world, no value, no purpose, so why should she waste one of those wide-blue-eyed gazes on us? We’re not quite tall enough or handsome enough, not rich enough for Suzi to grace with her sham-shy smiles.

It’s such a shame, because I know we’d be good together. I could teach her so many things – not just laugh at her mistakes, however cute they may be – but all she ever asks of me is one more drink. I pour, she totters across the room to lean on the latest, expensively clad arm. Soon a new piece of jewellery, a new scent and a new smile appear. Then she disappears for a while, gets over heartbreak, gets back to what she thinks is normal, gets back in the game.

Last night I decided I had waited long enough for her to see me. I gave her Midori an extra kick, watched her lose all kinds of balance. I took my chance, took her home, took a little something while she thrashed and moaned, and left her with a little piece of me.