The power cable to the bedside light twitches every time Willow’s heart beats. We flipped the mattress before we tried to sleep. The bedside light is attached to the headboard. The power cable runs horizontally from the socket above the skirting board. It has a small switch about three quarters of the way along it. When we flipped the mattress a load of dust blew up in a grey four-cornered mushroom cloud. Willow said, ‘When was the last time you cleaned under there?’
‘I’ve been meaning to have a bonfire,’ I told her.
She said, ‘Cut the crap.’
We didn’t bother to make the bed back up. We’d had a lot of wine. And my nose keeps dribbling. Could be blood. Internal rupture. Body knows better than me. Wants out. Forces me to keep checking to see if my snot is red. I said to Willow, ‘I don’t want to get snot all over the pillow case.’ It was already on her shirt collar. Willow stripped everything bare. Then she lay on the bed, spread her arms, threw her feet, and said, ‘It hasn’t changed.’
I lie with my mouth open, warm inside the bare duvet. Polyester bobbles exfoliate. Sweat glands are open and on parade. Follicles dilate. Pave the way. I roll over. Scrotum enveloping my inner thigh like feather down or clear honey on a hot day. I reach towards the bedside table behind me for a tissue. There are none. A police car drives past with its lights flashing but no siren. The power cable to the bedside light twitches. I can hear Willow’s heart beating through the bedsprings. Revitalised. Calm. Jurassic Park glass of water in relentless metal springs singing her sonar blip.
I envy her.
Start drooling more.
Heart like a rubber ball bouncing off the bedroom walls. Always coming back.
Oh, I envy her.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I’d said. And like lead in a river sank down behind her on the bed. We didn’t have sex. We just lay, me lining the edge of the bed while her breath kept ramming the wall.
I suck in so aggressively I half expected my frontal lobe to detach. Down throat. Hit lung peninsular with meteoric power. Bleed. Colour of migraine. Rot. Bridging the gap between having a stroke and knowing you’re probably going to have one eventually. Be reduced to a vegetative state in a care home. The police car has stopped moving. Its lights block the street lamps and turn the room into blue blood, flashing.
Maybe they’re finally coming for me.
I get up and go to the bathroom. Sit on the toilet, lid down, naked. Goose pimples. Try blowing my nose. No blood on the paper. Not even a common cold. Still, something’s wrong. My hands are shaking. Think about running a quick bath but I can’t stand up. Feet glued to the floor. Freezing. I rub my face, my hair. Try listening for something, anything. Dead sister. Weeping sister. She wept for me earlier. Gun in my mouth. Now nothing. Something’s wrong. I’m completely alone.
The door opens. Willow stands there fully clothed, rubbing her eye. ‘I think I’m going to go,’ she says.