Quantum Poppers Read Online Free PDF Page B

were escalating to
weekly occurrences; the most notable of which being the kid in the restaurant.
If he hadn’t been freaked out before, he certainly had been then.
    He and Emma had
been sat in the cramped booth at Stayx. Their portion of onion loaf looked like
some dirty coral reef sitting between them and the sound of screaming kids
filled the air.
    'How’s the love
life?' Emma had asked.
    'Consistent,'
Tony replied.
    'That bad.
Don’t worry, someone will come along soon.'
    'Ah, thanks.'
    'I don’t mean
to sound patronising, but a nice girl can do a lot worse than you.'
    'Keep talking.'
    'We’ve had this
conversation before. You know I how I feel.'
    They both
reached for the loaf, which crumbled at the pressure of being torn apart, and
both pulled back plain onion, the batter remained stuck to the surface as if it
were a growth on the plate rather than part of the meal.
    'I’ve met
someone,' said Emma. 'A guy from the pub. He liked me, I kind of liked him,
we’re going to see what happens.'
    'Kind of liked?
Sounds like a strong foundation on which to begin a relationship.'
    'It's not
always the foundations that needs to be strong. Houses can be built on soggy
clay with plenty of luck and the right kind of mud.'
    'A beautiful
sentiment. Are you supplying the right kind of mud?'
    'I think we
should stop with the house building as relationship metaphor.'
    'Done,' said Tony. He broke off a
piece of empty batter and washed it down with a mouthful of coke. Around them
the noise seemed to intensify. Waiters balancing impossibly high stacks of
trays, some as large as tractor wheels, dodged in and out of the cramped tables
as well as the kids headed towards the play area. Come to think of it, the play
area hadn’t been there the last time Tony and Emma had visited, this had surely
increased the numbers of families to what once had been a 'homely and warm part
of Texas, UK style', or so the sign above the bar informed them. Tony could see
the pool of multicoloured balls behind Emma explode sporadically as kids (the
boys) cannon balled into them whilst others (the girls) ran out screaming,
holding arms aloft, their faces contorted in order to squeeze out the most
tears. They were the lucky ones, thought Tony. It's the ones that
come out with silent looks of horror on their face who would be the ones in
trouble.
    Looking back on
it now, Tony could recall the family sitting next to the two of them -
thankfully one of the smaller groups in the restaurant, certainly the quietest.
Mother, Father, 2.4 children, they were anchored in his memory, an item on
which to hold base his recollections of what followed. Playing it over in his
mind he could see them leave, the kid had miraculously dodged one of the tray
carrying waiters, had his shoes rammed home by his mum, and then all leave as
normal. Which is of course what it was. It wasn’t until later that Tony
recalled how much of this he had subconsciously registered. He now needed to
remember, and prayed that any detail – the shoe being hammered home; the mum
dropping her umbrella; the yank of the pram’s plastic rain cover – meant
something, or held some secret.
    ‘You think
they’d let me in there?’ said Tony. He remembered asking this clearly enough.
    ‘The play area?
I think you’re a bit too big.’
    ‘Physically
perhaps. My mental age would love to cannon ball that pool.’
    ‘I’m sure your
mental age wants to do many things it can’t.’
    ‘My mental age
is kept active by a rigorous régime of video games and cartoons, cannon balling
that pit would we blessed relief.’
    ‘Not for the
poor kids who’d get ejected along with half the balls when you make contact.’
    ‘They’ll love
it, besides, that net will catch them.’
    Tony took a
large gulp from his drink and sloshed it round his mouth to clear out the
debris of onion and batter now clinging to his teeth. At least when going out
for the evening with Emma he didn’t need to worry about onion breath,