What was going to be my next move?

Alone I sat on the platform, waiting, always waiting. The cold chill and fog wraps around me, my body; over my shoulders and around my neck. I pull out dinner from my pocket, a tin of sardines which I managed to shove under my jumper when in the supermarket that evening. The steal was easy.  My sleeves covered my wrist, I gripped the tin in my left hand and covered it with my sleeve. I could not just walk out like this, the security label would have caused an alarm to sound, they would have caught me. The label was harshly stuck with strong glue which had leaked out from the label and formed hard glue balls, I felt them with my finger tips under my sleeve. The shop was bright and unknown, there was no one around; I could hear a small child crying and the clicking of broken trolley wheels around me yet I saw no one. Outside was dark, the front door of the shop, as if it lead to nowhere.  I bent down to a lower shelf, I made it look as if I had bent down to look for something else. The shelf was stacked of tins of tuna fish pulled to the front of the shelves. As I bent down, I pushed the tuna tins to the back of the shelf, gripping my pen knife in my right hand and tin in the left, I put both hands under the shelf. Quickly, I scribbled off the label from of the tin with the  penknife blade. The label peeled off and I pulled the tin into my hoodie pocket. Pen knife safely back in my pocket, I stood from the bottom shelf and approached the door.

Back on the station, I sat alone in the dark. A local train on the track opposite where observers watched me from their seats, most leaning their heads on the hands against the windows. I pulled the stolen tin out of my pocket, curled my fingers around the pull ring and opened the lid. I begin to scoop the small cold fish with my fingers, tipping them into my mouth from my pushed together fingers. The fish fell on to my tongue, there oily texture lingering in my mouth. The multiple, piled fish disintegrating as my fingers touched them in the tin for my next mouthful. I wished that I was somewhere familiar, in wished I hadn't thrown it all away. I finished my dinner, chewing and swallowing the last oily chunk, I thought of home. What was going to be my next move? When would I eat something that I had paid for?

Much love x