The smell of fear

    "In any case," she said, "I haven't got anything to say tonight."
    "My fingers smell of KY Jelly," I muttered, "here, have a sniff." I stuck out my hand in invitation. She turned away.
    "I can smell it from here," she said, "and your penis. Don't you ever wash?"
    I laughed. I laughed real hard. I got laughs like children's laughs, like the giggles; laughs that wrap around and feed into themselves and grow like an endless barnyard echo. And then I laughed some more.
    "We had fun, eh?" I said. "Remember that time you said, 'Don't you ever wash?' and I just started laughing, and I couldn't stop?"
    She leaned over and flicked the switch on the kettle.
    "Make some tea," she said, "I'm going for a piss."
    I looked down her top for a bit and then reached into the cupboard for some cups. "You really do have fantastic breasts," I said. "Magnificent."
    "Thanks," she said. And then bum and legs kitchen left, feet sounded on stairs, tinkle tinkled in toilet bowl, kettle popped, water splashed, teabag sighed.
    The end.

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to tell her always about her boobs. They had me under their spell; they nestled like eggs in their basket and my eyes floated down and fell in there with them, like babies on feathers. I slept there – I felt safe there – and I loved that so much I just had to tell her. Maybe women don't really like that sort of thing, and maybe I wasn't supposed to, but I did. That's all she was to me, really – well, those two gems of pearls of dove's white pillows and the hot and soggy snugness of being and banging inside her. You know what I mean; sometimes you just have to admit those things. I'd sang to myself a dozen times, "is this a love thang or a sex thang?" and the answer sat plain as milk on a black man's ear. I never told her though – probably she wouldn't want to hear that – and, luckily, she never asked.
    "Are you writing again?" she said. I handed her a white cup with a picture of a monkey on it and lost myself in the steam for a second. I thought I saw an owl in there. A bear. A wasp with a horse's neck. I tilted my head and squinted and then it became clear: a travelling salesman called Keith who peddles office furniture by day and then whips his diapered lover's shit-stained arse at night; they call each other 'kitten' and smear nutella on their balls.
    "I am," I said, "but it's kinda strange. I keep thinking I'm gonna write something about my day, or about some topic that interests me, but in the end I churn out nonsense, or things that look like fiction in layout but don't make much sense in content – except there's little nuggets of truth in there: maybe things from my life, ideas and thoughts and experiences, mixed in with gibberish and waywardnesses (like that word) – and not that I'm really trying, it's just what comes, but…"
    She shook her leg and peered at me over the cup. The steam played with her nose and then I saw beneath all the diapers and balls Keith was really quite sad inside – but then, aren't we all?
    "But…I don't know what." I paused, waiting for fingers to type, 'I paused, waiting for fingers to type.' "But I kind of like it, even if it is rubbish, even if it is nonsense – even if it means nothing to anyone that reads it, I still kind of like it. It's what comes," I said, "I guess I'll keep on doing it."
    "You should," she said, "maybe it'll lead to something."
    "Maybe," I said, half-believing it. "Do you want a biscuit? I've got chocolate." I smirked and presented the packet in her vague direction.
    "I bet you do," she said, "you dirty boy."

A bit later I was down the park with these three old guys I know from when I was in the war. We all got shot together somewhere near a Belgian cake shop and I was the only one that died. Funny thing is, now that they're all ancient and smelly (and not that I'm not smelly, but you know what I mean) I can't help but feel that I got the chicken breast and they got its arse.
    Anyway, me and Steve Coogan were chucking bits of duck at the birds and kicking off our shoes all Western abalone style, and Arthur Pantpress was sat there in the long grass kissing daisies, his strange moustache playing tricks in the light. I wanted to go up there and swing on it; tickle him and say, "oi! Arthur, get me a comb and we'll have a right good time here, me and you in the long grass, swinging on your moustache, combing your nasal hair into various symphonies and concertos, and maybe rustling up a sonata out of some old crisp packets," but I couldn't really be arsed. Mainly I was just listening to Jeff wax lyrical at some custard – with neither a wax nor lyric in sight. But that was just one of his many talents.
    "The greatest mystery of love" he said, after a bush had crossed his path, "is this: how can a man who has once wanted a woman so badly he would cut off his own left nipple to prove his love for her – cross thirsty deserts blindfolded to see her – give up everything he ever worked for to please her – leave his home, his friends, his country, his belongings – even his bees – how can this man who has done and said and felt all this, in every tiny little pore of his sweaty sock drawer (and beyond) – how can this man then one day turn around and say, in all decency and truth, 'I hate you, you bore me, I liked you once but now I want someone with bigger tits'? And then, perhaps, after some time, not even remember her name? How can this man do all this, and still have it be true?" He squatted down upon his haunches and pressed his hand against a rough, barky oak. "Tell me, tree," he said, "is that not the greatest mystery of love?"
    The tree sighed. Over in the long grass, Arthur looked up from his daisies. He grimaced towards the tree. Steve and I quit with our shoes and waited to see if the hoary old oak would speak.
    The tree sighed again.
    "That's just you though, innit?" said the tree. "Not everybody's like that."
    The world resumed spinning; clocks turned once more. Jeff's eyes flummoxed towards the floor. He was a coma of dejection.
    "I guess so," he replied, "I never thought of that. Still, it is quite interesting, don'tcha think?" He took his hand from the tree and lay on the grass against its stump, his head in its lap, his knees tucked against his chest. He hugged himself and whimpered, a tear journeying from one eye to the other, his stare off into the distance, unfocused, looking at the past.
    And then the tree explained it all – something to do with a mirror and a crack – and I went back to tossing the last of my duck at a couple of babies who were shaking their feebles in the early evening sun.
    "It's a beautiful day," I said to Steve, popping a bit of duck in my mouth. "One for me, two for you, my little friends," I said.
    "It's the kind of day that makes you glad to be alive. It's good to get out," he said, "and get some sunshine on your bones." He rolled up his sleeve and showed me his wrinkled brown forearm and gave it a slap. "Vitamin D," he said, "cacahuertes."
    He was always going on about peanuts: sometimes he just said it for no reason, like then, because he liked the taste of it; other times he told me it was good for your immune system, to say 'peanuts' in whatever language, but he'd always deny it later. I didn't know what to think, really.
    "S'good for your immune system," he said, and smiled. I rolled my eyes and tucked my thumbs under my arms. I didn't know what to think.