Crane Tower

Crane Tower

Tom had been working the same shift, in the same job, for thirty six years.  He operated the crane and pondered that his life mimicked the monotony and autonomy of the crane arm.  It lowered, filled its basket, raised, trundled to the depository and dropped its load. He got up, tried very hard not to wake his wife and failed, had a shit, drove to work, completed his shift then trundled home again, ate bland food and went to bed.

He hadn’t had sex for two years, eight months and sixteen days.  He was that bored and pissed off that he was counting the days. He should stop, that part of his life was over, he’d stopped making his advances and she’d stopped recoiling as though he was abusing her.

They hadn’t been out for years, and he’d never been the kind of man for pints in the pub with the lads. The holidays had stopped fifteen years ago after three bad ones on the trot. She’d said there was no point with such awful food.

She could talk, her food was terrible.  It gave him indigestion, her hands were too hot and heavy for pastry.

She watched telly at night—and probably all day too. He’d never really thought much about what she did while he worked. He didn’t interfere with her telly, those interminable soaps that all looked the same and the two Geordies that were on everything else. He used to like sport, didn’t mind a bit of football—but the World Cup had clashed with Emmerdale and he’d never bothered since.

She sucked her false teeth.

Huh, she never sucked him—and he’d stopped wanting her to.  The noise was a pile driver in his head. He tried not to look, but her puckered mouth moving over her plate disgusted him.

He’d put up with a lot, but in the end it took so little—it was just one suck too far.

The moon turned his basket into a silhouette. It was like art.  He lowered, filled, moved the crane and dropped the last basket of earth.

‘Suck on that Betty.’