Her name was Dawn — pretty, unlike her. She hung out on the bottom step and I hung out maybe one above. Her misery was council-housed while mine was mortgaged. “Jam-butty land” her estate called ours, mocking what our parents fed us so they could scrimp for the payments on basic brick boxes to pass on to us. Outside our scruffy shared launderette she lay in wait. I recognized that clench-jawed fury, understood why she hated me: because one day I might get out of there while she never would. As her knuckles exploded into my nose, we both knew it.
Cathy Lennon lives in northwest England. She mostly writes short. Find Cathy on Twitter @clenpen.
[Ed. Note: Jam butties are jam sandwiches.]