Page 6 - Bottle
P. 6

"Wha– You're–"And he'd almost said in reflex:
"you're joking." Luckily it hadn't come out.

    He went to the toilet, lifted the seat and stood
for a moment. Then he changed his mind and sat.
He watched a silverfish run the rim of the bath at
the tiles, before disappearing down an ancient
crack. There was a time when most of the edge of
the bath, no, the entire bathroom, was chocker
with cosmetic bottles and tubes of all shapes and
sizes. It had smelt like Boots the chemist. He had
worried that the perfume would stick and the boys
at work would think he was a poof. He'd joked in
front of Sandra that he had trouble finding his
toothbrush. Once, when she was out he'd
accidentally knocked a bottle over whilst drying
himself and it had been like those standing
dominoes, one knocking the next. And when he
came to right them, he was too clumsy or his
hands were too big and one was forever toppling
the other, frustration eventually stealing his smile.

   Kevin wiped his bum, pulled up his underwear,
covered and flushed the toilet, washed his hands
with soap and dried them on a towel.

   Then he was standing over the phone again.
This time he was in striped boxer shorts. The
bruise at his side was still purple, but it was no
longer so intense. Brawling over a woman in the
pub. Clever, real clever. The silence made him

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