The Bin

         Today a mad man stirred me from whatever spell that I was under. All he did was ask me a question, just one stupid, admittedly bizarre question and it shot my bars wide open.
         A slither of drool trailed from his lip, snaking over his chin and settling on his soup-stained cardigan. His buttons were all wrong but he didn't know, probably wouldn't care if he did. He cared about me though. He marked me out as soon as he stepped into the shop. I saw him straight away, eying up my uniform. He marched, arms rising and falling in a clumsy, bulbous way, right at me.
         He was crazy. There was no doubt about it. It was a Wednesday after all, the day that the nutters esacaped the bin, their 'helpers' (or whatever the PC word was,) scrambling after them as they scattered. He had the look too, the look that matched the drool, that of a parrot, its head to one side, idly crunching up crackers.
         I knew all this of him already and he knew nothing of me. Yet when he stomped up and stopped, he rubbed a fist against his nose, scrunched his eyes and opened his mouth.
         'What are you doing here?' he said. And as a flustered woman gushed apologies and rushed him away, I knew he wasn't crazy and that maybe I was.