Nearing the end of his evening commute, he pulls the car over, removes the key and steps onto the road.
He lifts the creaking bonnet for the first time in years and surveys the built-up grease coating the once-gleaming surfaces.
He removes his tie, undoes the top buttons of his shirt and pulls it over his head. He folds it into a wad and wipes the grease from the top of the engine block. His neat nails catch on the metal ridges and fill with black.
He pulls off the leads, unclips the distributor cap and discards them on the pavement next to a yellow skip, overflowing with domestic debris.
Running his grease-black fingers through his hair, he peers over the edge of the skip. He picks up a rusted power drill, missing its drill bit, and holds it against his temple.
‘Pow!’ he laughs.
He licks a blackened finger and draws a smile on the dust-coated screen of a sad grey computer.
‘You’ll be late home,’ says a chainless bike.
‘They’ll be worried sick,’ says the broken beach umbrella.
‘It’s so unlike you,’ adds a cracked bathroom basin. ‘You’re always so punctual.’
* * *
When a neighbour’s car pulls up, he mutters something about a breakdown, and accepts a lift home.
He pauses in the driveway. A dismantled retaining wall rots slowly on the sodden soil. A gap-toothed rake lies grinning.
Through the window, his wife and children are shadow puppets, approaching and receding with the billowing curtain.
And it all looks the same as it does every evening.
Just a little darker.