The Brothel Creeper: Stories of Sexual and Spiritual Tension by Rhys Hughes

immortal, it did not matter. At least we were rushing through the atmosphere, into space. The cosmos is one big coffin. So we began to feel at home.
    We like it up here, cold and mute. We slide like shadows across the inner surface of our compressed vessel. My dreams about steering to the stars have also been squashed. We have gone into orbit around the moon. And yet, strangely enough, the washing machine survived the blast. I am tempted to enter it myself and change my own polarity. Too long have I been a mummy. Now I want to be an anti.
     
     

Is My Wife on Mars?
     
    Hunky Pal watched his wife put on lipstick and said, “Are you going out tonight?” Then he sipped his beer.
    Greta made that special face in the mirror that is supposed to be a test to see if a reddened mouth is right and said, “Darlene’s having a party just for all the girls. I promised to go.”
    “It’s Friday night,” said Hunky.
    “That’s right, it is. You don’t mind?”
    “We play cribbage on a Friday, that’s all.” Hunky finished his beer and wiped dry his chin with his sleeve.
    “Guess we’ll have to skip it for once.”
    “So what’ll I do on my own?”
    “Play solitaire instead. There’s a nice wooden board that Uncle Conker carved for us with his bare hands.”
    “Suppose I could do that. Then sit on the roof with my telescope, if the clouds will let me. Gaze at stars.”
    “There you go. Don’t wait up.”
    Hunky shifted in his seat. “OK, take care, then.”
    “Of course I will. Always do.”
    She walked out of the house and closed the front door behind her with a click as soft and precise as an insect’s jaws. Hunky opened another beer but didn’t bother pouring it in a glass. He drank straight from the can like a jackal would, lapping the foam.
    The television wasn’t on, it was never on.
    He finished this second beer, went to look for the solitaire board. Then he realised he had never known where it was kept, that he hadn’t heard of Uncle Conker before. But it was worth a search. He rummaged behind the sofa, under the bed, up in the attic.
    He backed down the ladder an hour later.
    There was nothing for it but to dial Darlene’s house and ask to speak to his wife so Greta could tell him exactly where it was. Surely she wouldn’t object to such a simple request. Or would she? Women. He yanked up the telephone and pushed the sequence…
    “Good evening, Darlene. This is Hunky here. Hunky. Sorry to disturb. May I speak to Greta for a minute? Greta. My wife. Oh, I get it, she’s not there. Did she leave the party?”
    “What party, Mr Pal? There’s no party here.”
    “No party there, Darlene?”
    “Just a quiet night in, me and Rolf.”
    “I understand. Thanks Darlene. Have a good night now.”
    He replaced the telephone.
    And frowned to himself. No party?
    In that case, where was she? Where was his wife? Could it be possible he would never see Greta again?
    He sobbed to himself, then went and resumed the search, still sobbing, still wondering who Uncle Conker might be. At last he found the solitaire board at the bottom of the laundry basket. The little cloth bag of wooden balls was missing, so he played with peanuts, unsalted, and kept failing to win against himself. He resigned.
    He went to bed and lay under the quilt and the same thoughts bounced from one side of his mind to the other, as if two mirrors had been lodged there face to face, reflecting each other to infinity, batting spherical ideas back and forth in a game of insanity tennis. Greta had left him, gone back to her mother, fallen in a river, been eaten by moths or goats, combusted spontaneously or after arrangements.
    She came back after midnight and slipped in beside him. He pretended to snore. Much later, when the time was right, he reached out and hugged her close. Then he snored for real.
     
    The car outside honked its horn and Hunky kissed Greta goodbye and left for work. Crumbs of breakfast toast twitched on the corners of the grin