Scrambled Eggs and Broken Bottles

A dull morning in East London, Lovelace and I slouched in a greasy spoon discussing the night before: The Queen's Head, a night like every other night - rum, rejection and angry boyfriends. A cold breeze came through the open door, as the early morning radio dj's rattled from the kitchen, and the Bethnal locals stared blankly into their morning newspapers, tapping ringed fingers onto cheap, red melamine table tops. The light in the place made me nauseous, or it did that morning, wray and nephew throbbing behind my eyes as I grimaced at the laminated menus. Lovelace described a sordid scene in the Queen's Head toilets as a sad-eyed Italian woman took our orders. I tried desperately not to glance at her chest as I asked for the all day breakfast. Her beauty had long since faded and she was plain at best, but that morning, amidst the gloom and monotony, she was a Modigliani, maternal and familiar, a wife, a mother to my children! I watched her as she waddled away, and noticed a gentleman looking up from his paper out the window behind us. Lovelace's smile dropped from his face as he glanced over my shoulder. I frowned and followed his stare to the street outside. A woman, dressed in a long trench coat, was leaning against the window, covered in blood, a broken bottle in her hand. A man was wrestling with her, pleading as she attempted to stab the bottle into her jugular. The cafe sat in stunned silence. Suddenly I found myself standing and running outside, with Lovelace calling after me.

Her clothes were flecked with blood, her neck was lacerated, and her large, red hands were gripped like a vice onto the broken vodka bottle. She spat and cursed and writhed as I clenched her hands and begged her to let go. But this was a women trying to do just that; a heroin addict, a victim of domestic violence, an alcoholic, she had lost a child long ago or a husband perhaps, whatever the story, looking into her green bloodshot eyes, I could see that here was a woman intent on 'letting go.' The other man with us was also a drunk, he pulled too violently, threatening to 'break her arm' if she didn't let go. I pushed him away, and he lost his balance and fell. I put my fingers around the bottle and yanked hard. It came free and I could breathe. The woman ran off into the crowd and I never saw her again. The drunk cursed and staggered away.

I looked at my hand, it was cut and covered in blood, hers and mine, horrific images of Aids and worse flooding my mind. The locals in the cafe had gone back to their papers and coffee mugs. Lovelace stood in the doorway. 'Mate, your scrambled eggs...' JR