Garjel-blah

The back door bursts open, emitting a cloud of stifling steam into the shabby back alley. Out from the noise and the heat, steps a scruffy looking, lanky young man. His name is Edgar. Or Ed. He does not care, as long as it isn’t Eddy. Watch him slam the door shut, waving away the smoke and strong odours that still hang around him and infuse his unremarkable matted hair. See how he traverses the vacated alley, pacing to the opposite wall; how he leans against it like an old mop that has just been put aside while the janitor has a smoke. How he carefully wipes his near-opaque glasses on his grimy apron, how he curiously peers out at the