In the newsagent

I was in one of those compact urban newsagents and the young man in front of me is ordering cigarettes and talking with his son.  The son is about 5.  Or maybe a small 8.  The man is ordering cigarettes and he is holding a half-empty bottle of lager and he is telling his son that he should be choosing some chocolate or something and the man behind the counter is fetching the cigarettes and the little boy does not want to choose some chocolate or  something and the father is bewildered and asks the boy to choose something and it becomes clear within a few exchanges that the little boy cannot see what he really wants and had in any case been promised by his dad that they would be going to the big shop where whatever it is that he is looking for is actually on sale.

And the man is lovely and young and trying hard to be a good dad but he is also pissed and possibly high and out of his depth already because he only sees his son at the weekend and he’s desperate to be a good dad and he’s even managed to get the boy a haircut sometime today so that the little boy has a haircut which not only matches the man’s own clearly recent haircut but also – somehow – matches the man’s vest and his tattoos and the aura of someone who has not eaten properly for quite a while.

The man refuses even to countenance visiting the other shop until suddenly he changes his mind and explains that of course they’ll go to the big shop and he thanks the man behind the counter (having just been given his change) and begins to walk out of this little shop and head towards the big shop.

The little boy’s expression has not changed at all.

And the man has forgotten his cigarettes.  I pick them up, tap him on the shoulder as he holds open the door, and – just for a moment - he breaks into a sliding, grateful, confused and happy smile.  Just for a moment.