shallots screaming. The wallet gone.

Back in the real world.
It is cold, his cum. In the lilac room. Cold cream on his bare belly.
Shafts of sunlight kissing his spoiled nakedness, licking at his body fluid, jellied. Rude. Crude.
He went, then, to cover himself as if he were suddenly clairvoyantly informed.
He meant to, but the will to do so went.

Silence, as near as.

Perhaps it was the room that was leering. Maybe it was fate, this near, and nearing.
Then, sharp laughter, plain fact, young, rapid, sexy. What?
Too fucking rapid. Certain.
Shit!
The door opens.
The door opens.
Fuck!
Frank in the first phase of screaming his guts up.
She with the pert tits completely out. Lilac bra.

The boyfriend, familiar, cock out, rock solid. Kylie bomber jacket.

Girlfriend explosive, turning to run. A blind panic.

The boy fixed, petrified, still hard, knowing. Slender, post adolescent. Traces of juvenile skin imperfections marking his brittle neck and characterless chin. The designer stubble almost downy. His doe eyes hungry and already worn.
It is, it is, it fucking is the park boy, re-inventing himself, remembering everything.
Remembering everything…
        They were in a tired park, coupled after dark, away from the abused urinals, hard in each other’s hands, fake father and son, the act hidden by gathered Elms and a slab of dense blackness thrown by a derelict football stand. Just sex.
Remembering everything.
Frank thinking, this is no way to greet a daughter.
Frank thinking, this is no way to greet a daughter.
Frank thinking, I’ve had him. I have. We. Yes. Just the once.
Found out now.
Found out.
The deafening sound of a young man flying, making short work of the stairs, testing the hinges of the front door. Reverberating slam.

Left to cope. A seventeen year old. An only child. Sobbing. Letting her cheap mascara run.

At last the father inside Frank moves- he’s moving to the upper hall.
Frank, decent in a white towelling robe, finding his daughter crashing on the landing, thrashing madly, pulling new video film from her mind and attacking it with very sharp but imaginary scissors.
‘Why?’ she suddenly asks, accusingly, vicious, ‘Why? Yeah. Why? Fucking why?’
He thinks, because I am a gay man. Not good enough.
He says, as best he can, ‘It was not something you were meant to see. I am so very sorry.’

A long silence. Dreadfully long.

Finally, Frank with his flawed arm around her shoulders, caring, being modern, ‘Tell me, was it just sex babe, or were you really close?’
She,
            defiant,
                    petulant,
                                still contemplating patricide,
‘Dad! How could you?
You could see, right. Alright! You could fucking see it. We are so fucking addicted to each other. Boy girl. Normal shit. This close. Addicted. That’s what we are, dad, utterly, totally, normally addicted to each other.
Don’t you know anything?’

© CHRIS MADOCH 2007