Burlesque - 6

‘Did you see her lips?’

‘What?’

‘Val’s lips. Did you see Val’s lips?’

Phil is having a distracted moment. The remote seems to be out of juice, or broken. ( Don’t remember throwing it?) Hot Hot Triple X is still proudly punting its wares and without thinking he has plumped back into the cushions of his ‘leather’ sofa.

Screwing up his eyes, Phil tries visualising his will as a late autumnal ice flow inching and freezing through the canals of his howling being - but let’s face it, he feels like a bit of a twat. (It’s NOT FAIR!)

‘Phil!’

Peeling fragile thighs, he heaves himself across the table to physically flick the off switch. ’What?’ But his knees just aren’t playing. Slapping open palm onto marble - a reactive and ultimately useless grasp at stability; his elbow immediately folds.

Babe, towel wrapped and shower dripping, walks into the room to find her man kneeling on the table, arse in the air, picking shards of nail from fairy soft fingers. The taut lycra of khaki underpant offers little camouflage to the evidence of an earlier, inexpert Andrex swipe, and as he jolts with each extracton his rear appears to bob (almost brightly); ‘Hello!’ Bob. ‘Hello!’

Babe hovers in a cloud of doubt. ‘Would you mind turning that off?’ Bottoms, bottoms everywhere; too many bums to think. (What am I doing with my life?)

Now Phil may be rather fond of reflective surfaces, but even he’s not waterproof. The wave of disappointment that floods Babe’s flagging boat of hope, sloshes out of her and over him - sluicing his filthiest corners. Oh, lor!

Words flush, with a rush through the imperfect barricade of a cerebral groyne; (Oh, Philip! Really.) She’s coming through, loud and clear, and you’re still wanting Phil. ‘No!’ He groans as he crumples. Folding, feotal, ‘No!’

‘Phil?’ Babe is looking somewhat disconcerted. ‘Phil, you alright?’

The king of cool is curled and hyperventilating on the coffee table. Of course he’s not alright.

‘Phil!’

‘No!’ (You give mummy a little kiss now!) Oh, she’s coming through alright, (Cumma make it bettah babee.) Loud and clear; ‘No!’

Babe’s beautiful mouth twists in horror. (Stop shaking your bloody head man.)

He‘s writhing now, more panting now; ‘Get out of my fucking head mother!’

Oh, dear. A poignant soundtrack accompanies our favourite waitress’ slump. A modern serenade to crumbling illusion: the shuddering climactic chorus of male sob and dirty lesbo groovers going down.

(Jesus this is not real?) The evening is really not taking the turn that she’d hoped.

But hey, our girl’s a rallier and this aint the first pack of biscuits gone to crumbs at the bottom of her rucksack.

Knocking towel turban from her head, she rubs vigorously, walking -away from Phil - towards the bedroom. This has - let's face it - been an intriguing evolution in an already twisted situation

Sleep tight, Babe.