gargling

Dennis loosened the Harley Davison buckle on his belt and lowered himself. He sighed. His belly rested down over his legs and his sadness flew into his chest. His rage frayed to grief. His feelings sat in his spine.

On the loo, he just sat. He sat longer than he needed. Not gripped or frozen. Just paused. It wasn’t the weight of indecision; rather the gentle pull of gravity before certain action. He looked up and saw he’d shut the door. His wife was out, and in any case they’d long forgotten the perfume of privacy, so the discretion sat purposelessly, like a too-buttoned up jacket at the first sight of yellowed leaves.

He stood up. Felt the red imprint of the seat in his thighs and buttocks. He couldn’t look in the mirror. His cheek turned, eyes askance: he looked down and away. It wasn’t shame. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t any of the things you’d think it might be, or ought to be. He just didn’t like his face. Too round, too many pores. Just too there and existing in its splendid ordinariness. Or maybe, he thought that by looking in the mirror he’d see the man who thought his thoughts and felt his feelings. And he didn’t fancy meeting him. He didn’t fancy that at all. So he washed his hands and looked studiously at the right hand of the sink instead.

The wetness struck him. It struck him of the absurdity of doing things. Of doing all the things. Any of the things. Shutting doors, washing hands, saying goodnight, putting the butter away.

When does it stop being valuable to wash your hands? Or say goodnight? When does it become a vanity or waste or simply an inefficient use of time? An hour before you die? A day? Week? Eight years? Right now?

He lingered in the threshold of the bathroom and wondered exactly what the tipping point was. When does the vacuity of it all become unavoidably bright? Like a dreadful curtain rising on a dreadful play. You know it will be bad and pointless but you have to see it through now you’ve sat down. Is there a time it becomes possible look past the acting and the ornaments and just see all the precious, imagined bits left out? When does that bit come?

He went downstairs for a sandwich.

Cheese. Lettuce. Warburtons. Salad Cream. Cucumber. No marg. One slice through the centre. He had no time for the ostentatiousness of quarters.

Ate. Rinsed the plate of crumbs.

His sandwich had only been on the plate for a few minutes so washing-up liquid seemed a fuss. At least he’d done more than brushed it with his hand today. She’d appreciate that today. Especially today. And he left for the day. For this day. Light and heavy.

It was only a short walk. But instantly he remembered why he didn’t wear these socks. They droop and bunch and rub. I should throw them out really, he thought. I never will. I never have. Despite having had this thought every time I’ve worn them. Every single time. For years I have never thrown them out and now I guess I never will.

He walked on to the school.

As he entered the playground he felt the mild irritation of bits of cheese gathered round his incoming wisdom teeth and reddened gums. Like limpets on salted rocks. This was an irritation further agitated by the fact that he couldn’t put his hands in his mouth to get the bits out out without stopping what he was doing. And he couldn’t do that. Not now.

For a moment, then, he thought about Listerine. And then how odd it was to think of Listerine at this moment. At this very moment. And how odd it would be to have known as a child that his, Dennis’s, final thoughts would be of cheese, Listerine, and gum disease.

Cheese. Listerine. Gum disease.

Cheese. Listerine. Gum disease.

Imagine that. He was thinking about gums.

He went in.