Terry stands in front of the TV even
though I’m watching it.
I don’t shout, ‘Get out of my bloody way, Terry!’
I say sweetly, ‘You all right, Terry?’
He holds out his phone
and I go cold,
look around for Mum.
‘Film me
doing my press-ups,’ he says.
He pulls off his vest.
I take the phone.
‘Why?’
‘I wanna examine my technique,
you know?’
He flexes his muscles.
Rolls his neck.
I press the red button,
watch him as he hits the floor
and counts to fifty,
each press-up punctuated by a grunt:
‘One, argh, two, urgh, three, huuu, four…’
By the time he’s finished
his face is as red as a battered pizza.
He stands up all sweaty and panting,
pleased with himself.
‘How did I look?’ he asks.
‘You looked great, Terry,’ Mum says.
She’s wearing a bathrobe,
her hair hidden beneath a towel.
Terry snatches his phone from me.
‘Make me a cup of tea, Louise,’ he says,
and falling down into an armchair,
turns the TV off
and watches himself
puff and pant
all over again,
with an ugly
grin on his face.