A delivery driver
He spends his days being dragged back and forth across the city, arms clipped by wing mirrors, hands cramping around the handlebars of his motorbike.
He delivers brown paper bags filled with overpriced burgers and veganised fried chicken to app-users in the comfort of their own homes, people who think nothing of paying the extra but always forget to leave a tip.
He waits on the front step for his latest customer, sweating beneath his visor, glancing through a neighbour’s window.
He sees them through the half-drawn curtain: a man and a woman, on the sofa.
The man is seated, his dark jeans around his ankles, his bronze legs splayed.
The woman is on top of him, her pale, bare back exposed, the man’s tattooed hand travelling up the length of her.
There’s something desperate in their movements, as if they’re clinging on to each other for dear life.
She leans down, whispers something that can’t be heard.
In the doorway behind them, a weekend bag sits idle on the floor.
Perhaps one of them has just returned from somewhere. Perhaps one of them is going away.
Then the front door opens, and the order is complete, and the driver heads back out into the night.