Burlesque - 4

Phil is cutting his toenails. He’s in one of those fugs. It’s all getting harder. He looks down, (nearly all). He shivers, the earlier half-hearted attempt at a wank troubles - but those perfect brown bottoms, bustling for attention, thrusting out of his plasma screen, they weren’t right, it had all seemed a little bit silly; a little bit, obvious. (Forty two. Forty bloody two.) He tugs at a quaver of horny yellowing nail, levering it out from under a pouting lip of hard, dead skin - He tightens his grip - gives one sardonic twist to the sado-(bastard)-smile that has tortured his big toe for weeks - and,
‘Yes!’ Sheepishly he drops the clenched fist of a victory wave to the marble slab table top.

Butterfly wings flap.

The little pile of nail prunings teeters, toppling into a finely chopped line of cocaine. He can summon a weak ‘Gotcha’, but the wry smile freeze dries when he hears it.

Jumping back into the cushions, yelping as the sweaty thighs that sucker him to the seat yield to a greater kinetic force - fear - his heart pitter patters. ‘Jesus Christ, what…?’ (getting Jumpy as well as old.) Taught lines ease with the reflection and he puffs disgruntlement. ‘What the fuck are they doing down there?’ Sighing Phil stands, (if you want something done…) ‘…do it your fucking self.’ faintly aware of the raised pink patches (Leather Mart ripped you off mate) on the backs of his tanned, toned, tingling pins, he starts for the door. But oh that siren song. He’s halfway back to the table when the screaming kicks in.

Door - table - screaming. He dithers. Door - table; he stalls; table - table - table; and quick as you like, those beautiful fingers are flickering on that lustrous surface, frantically nudging cuttings this way and that. He glances at the perfect twenty tube, the scales of judgement clash to the left. Slathering along the edge of index, he scoops, with one deft movement, dust and nail; grimacing as he slides it under perfectly pre-curled top lip.

Screaming, (ooh la) screaming?

Clutching his crotch protectively, he starts down the stairs. He has only got his pants on.

*******

(Everyting gonna be alright yeah, everyting gonna be alright,) Frank weighs in hard, forcing to engage a lock that bows from bloated frame and staggering through as key catches. Kicking door, clacking back the lambent jazz of streetlamp he spreads fingers to tap across the braille of ragged woodchip. A single light fitting hangs, uncoupled. (Old maid in the corridor of my eternal night, ah give it all you got boy!) ‘Ha, no woman no cry!’

(Twatty Julian) taps his displeasure. Frank makes farting sounds with his mouth and waves his bum in the air.

‘Neighbours,’ waggling no more ‘everybody needs good neighbours.’ he bounds, energised by the heat of ritual, up the blind stairway and into the flat. Flicking the switch he eases out of grey overcoat, presses play and settles back. Ahh, Mister Mottled is home.

But something is out of place. The corners of Frank’s mouth twitch, a ragged out of tempo tic. The insistant backbeat of Julians broom handle hammering? No, Frank assimilated that one a long time ago - familiarity breeding a contemptuously aggravated indifference - No; there go the lips again, (what is that…) his nose twists, nostril gaping, sucking up, (…smell?) Every plump pleat of self satisfaction drops, leaden, as recognition knocks like an ugly neighbour with an empty cup, at the door to his conscious castle.

‘Oh shit.’

*************