We nod to the latest waxing of a time bomb ticking, snapping our gingers and sucking soda through striped paper straws as we lean into the big old radio. The girls and boys have lettered sweaters slung around their skinny shoulders, and bags full of homework they’ll ignore until the final tick, and the man behind the counter in the candy cane shirt is playing with a shiny gun, pointing it at the nodding heads, one by one, and squeezing the trigger tight enough to feel the tremble in his index finger. When the ticking stops, there’s one almighty slurp, and the espresso machine hisses and fills the room with steam. There may or may not be survivors, but we’ll have to wait until the newsreader croons his tearful lament before we assess whether it’s a hit or a miss.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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