Waste

Mandy has an amazing body. This is because she swims for an hour every morning.

We have sex every evening on the sofa when she gets home. Sometimes we have sex in the car. She strokes the sparse hairs on my chest as I fall asleep. We read the papers together on a Saturday and she is the only person I know who, from scratch, hand bakes croissants.

Mandy tastes of chlorine.

Even after a hot bath with lavender oil, or shower-scrubbed with a loofah, I can taste it on her; that chemical taste and salt-sour skin. When I am at my best it reminds me of childhood Monster Munch and hot chocolate for 20p from those old vending machines.

When I am at my worst it reminds me of the day my dad drowned in the local pool.

I have tried not to think, as I lick her soft belly, of his open mouth, his lips hard apart like a broken clam shell. I have tried not to think, as my mouth is on her, of him bobbing in the water, bloated like bread left in duck ponds.

But it's no use. It won't work. Mandy tastes of chlorine.