Birmingham, 1928

It was almost torture, how much Arthur yearned for you, though you had next to no clue who he was, he felt shunned, cast aside, he felt less, he liked it.

He wasn't hurt by the way you turned your shoulder whenever he approached or entered the same room as you, he enjoyed watching the back of your head, knowing one day you'd break, invite him into heaven and maybe say something to him.

The sweet, dull pain he felt in his chest whenever he saw you was nearly too much to bear, nearly. He endured it all the while, watching from the snug in the Garrison while you sat and drank with your friends. He'd considered begging you to just ignore him but let him he close, actively shun him, but he was afraid, afraid you'd tell him to kick rocks and bite one just for suggesting such a thing.

His eyes locked on you over his whisky glass, he trailed your figure like he did every time he saw you, because to you, he was invisible, and he loved it.

To simply know you were there was enough, he didn't need sweet words and promises of hearts and love everlasting, he just wanted you to give him the barest of bones, the most meagre of scraps..

"Oh darlin', please, please look this way, make those pretty eyes at old Arthur, give his heart a kick in the knackers eh? Go on.." he whispered to himself.

"There we are.. that's it treasure, turn away, I'm nothing to you am I? Absolutely nothing." he muttered.

He got some sort of sick, twisted pleasure from being ignored by you, he'd imagined kneeling at your feet only for you to pass him by, sweeping his face with the material of your skirts, he'd grasp for your scarf or shawl, something of yours that he could steal.

"Good little thing that you are, you don't need me, never will, but I'll be here, just as long as you give me little scraps I'll be here.."