When I opened the door to the toilet cubicle, the dead man’s body was slumped in the corner: his arms behind his back, his right leg cocked over the basin.

I rifled through his pockets but they were empty, someone obviously got there before me.

I peered around the man’s urine stained coffin for traces of his life, who he was, why he was here, but the vultures had picked his bones. He was no use to me.

As I turned to leave, I was surprised to see his phone lying face down on the floor, presumably locked, underneath his left knee. I picked it up, shaking off a few specks of watery vomit, and tried switching it on. A set of deep blues eyes and bloated pink lips looked at me as I pressed a button.

I looked at the man, then back at the woman’s face; an on screen marking of territory pissing all over the corpse at my feet. She was his. He was hers.

I shut the door. He was now mine.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

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