‘Missus,’ Christy greeted Bubs brightly. Bubs’s eyelashes lowered to half and came up again. ‘Two bottles of stout.’ Bubs didn’t move. ‘You’re the electrics,’ she said. ‘That’s right.’ She had the smallest eyes. They were bedded into a lumpen head, and not it nor any other part of her had moved an inch as she considered him. ‘I’m not wanting it,’ she said. Then she smiled. There are better smiles on deflated footballs. ‘I signed but I’m not wanting it now.’
