kiss her unwashed neck. She cries into my chest. I feel the warm damp of her tears as they seep into me. I find musical qualities within the crying. As it continues, it strikes me: I haven’t listened to music in days. This is the first time I’ve even thought of it. I spend significant time with the melancholy symphony, willing Nadia’s demons away while ignoring my own. That night we perform acts of unspeakable passion. We can’t stop.
* * * * *
I make my way back to Mrs Webber’s. She still appears entranced in post coital bliss. I arrange the usual instrumentation along with the headphones. I ask if she has a portable stereo. She fetches me one immediately.
“What on earth are you doing, Michael?”
I ignore the question. I hate her questions. “Can you get me a CD, Mrs Webber?”
“What CD do you want?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anything.”
She spends some time foraging around for a CD that won’t embarrass her. She returns with a pile of five or so. I grab the first one my hand touches, dropping the rest. The plastic clatter elevates Mrs Webber’s anxiety and she takes a cautious step backward. I load the CD roughly, intent on getting the job done. Sleep deprivation retards my coordination and every basic movement becomes a matter of second and third takes. The CD is loaded. I fumble with the headphone jack. On the fifth or sixth attempt I get it plugged in.
“Michael! What is this? Tell me what it is you’re doing? I could call your supervisor at the drop of a hat.”
“Shut up or fuck off, Mrs Webber.”
She takes several more defensive steps backward, finding solace against the adjacent wall. The icons on each stereo button, which indicate the function, have faded with use. I cycle through them all, searching for ‘play’. When I hear that magical sound of the CD whirring into life I pump a fist of internal victory. Holding up the enigmatic headphones against my ears I listen for the masturbation, making sure it isn’t an isolated phenomenon. It isn’t. Wanking fills my headspace instantly. I turn the volume up as far as it will go and press the headphones firmly against the wall.
“What are you doing now, Michael?”
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“When it happens, we’ll both know.”
An air of excitement buzzes within me as I wait. I have no idea what it is I’m waiting for but I’ll stay here as long as it takes. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I cast my mind to Nadia. She must be pacing the house in a powerful state of insecurity – fuck I love that crazy bitch! She needs the headphones more than me. I feel horrible for depriving her. It’s like scooping a fish from a pond and throwing it on the bank to flop around in agony. It isn’t hard for me to envision Nadia as a helpless fish, drying under the blazing sun. Flopping and flailing in concentric circles as her life ebbs away. I shed a tear which feels like a nail forcing its way through my duct. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I think about my job – I think about all jobs. The lack of purpose chokes me. My bank account remains at a constant level of stifling oppression, willing me to keep going, filling me with fear. How many jobs could be removed from the world without consequence? I’ve never met a single person who does anything worth a damn. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. Sex! This absurd drive, which satisfies for mere moments before we’re compelled to need it again. On more than one occasion I’ve dreamed about tearing my cock off and firing it into hell’s cunt, where it is swallowed and forgotten. My testicles manufacture generations of potential people, all of which die a quick death in a condom or the shower drain. I perform millions of abortions daily and nobody cares. The day my seed grows is the day I owe my sincere apologies to the world…
The
* * * * *
I make my way back to Mrs Webber’s. She still appears entranced in post coital bliss. I arrange the usual instrumentation along with the headphones. I ask if she has a portable stereo. She fetches me one immediately.
“What on earth are you doing, Michael?”
I ignore the question. I hate her questions. “Can you get me a CD, Mrs Webber?”
“What CD do you want?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anything.”
She spends some time foraging around for a CD that won’t embarrass her. She returns with a pile of five or so. I grab the first one my hand touches, dropping the rest. The plastic clatter elevates Mrs Webber’s anxiety and she takes a cautious step backward. I load the CD roughly, intent on getting the job done. Sleep deprivation retards my coordination and every basic movement becomes a matter of second and third takes. The CD is loaded. I fumble with the headphone jack. On the fifth or sixth attempt I get it plugged in.
“Michael! What is this? Tell me what it is you’re doing? I could call your supervisor at the drop of a hat.”
“Shut up or fuck off, Mrs Webber.”
She takes several more defensive steps backward, finding solace against the adjacent wall. The icons on each stereo button, which indicate the function, have faded with use. I cycle through them all, searching for ‘play’. When I hear that magical sound of the CD whirring into life I pump a fist of internal victory. Holding up the enigmatic headphones against my ears I listen for the masturbation, making sure it isn’t an isolated phenomenon. It isn’t. Wanking fills my headspace instantly. I turn the volume up as far as it will go and press the headphones firmly against the wall.
“What are you doing now, Michael?”
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“When it happens, we’ll both know.”
An air of excitement buzzes within me as I wait. I have no idea what it is I’m waiting for but I’ll stay here as long as it takes. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I cast my mind to Nadia. She must be pacing the house in a powerful state of insecurity – fuck I love that crazy bitch! She needs the headphones more than me. I feel horrible for depriving her. It’s like scooping a fish from a pond and throwing it on the bank to flop around in agony. It isn’t hard for me to envision Nadia as a helpless fish, drying under the blazing sun. Flopping and flailing in concentric circles as her life ebbs away. I shed a tear which feels like a nail forcing its way through my duct. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. I think about my job – I think about all jobs. The lack of purpose chokes me. My bank account remains at a constant level of stifling oppression, willing me to keep going, filling me with fear. How many jobs could be removed from the world without consequence? I’ve never met a single person who does anything worth a damn. The instrumentation refuses to register anything out of the ordinary. Sex! This absurd drive, which satisfies for mere moments before we’re compelled to need it again. On more than one occasion I’ve dreamed about tearing my cock off and firing it into hell’s cunt, where it is swallowed and forgotten. My testicles manufacture generations of potential people, all of which die a quick death in a condom or the shower drain. I perform millions of abortions daily and nobody cares. The day my seed grows is the day I owe my sincere apologies to the world…
The
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