Mark Heustice

He placed his erect penis inside her vagina.  After a while, he
ejaculated into the prophylactic.  It was then over.  So he went 
to make a cup of tea for them both.

He pressed the light switch.  The long light came on, went off, 
came on, went off, ticked, then came full on.  It shone bright 
white light onto everything, like a cover, or a shower of white
paint.  The kitchen was the second brightest room in the place. 
The toilet was the first.  He did not know why. It was just made 
that way. 

He went to the white kettle.  His half erection was causing him
some discomfort.  Some pubic hairs had got caught in the foreskin.
He freed them with one hand, and picked the kettle up with the other,
to check if it was full or empty.  The little ball on the water gauge 
was of no help.  It had got stuck at the top long ago.  He filled it
half full with water, replaced it on the plinth, and clicked it on.

The kettle wheezed and complained.  It was early.  He got two mugs 
down from the cupboard.  One had Goofy playing golf on it, and the 
other had Arsenal F.C. emblazoned upon it.  He chose the Goofy mug 
for himself, as it was bigger.  He plopped a tea bag into each.  Two
thousand perspirations.  A lot of fuss was made about tea.  People
were extremely anal about it.  Milk in first, half and half, a touch 
of milk, one and twelve seventeeths of sugar, etc.  He just took it
as it came.

He sat on the cold weary chair.  He looked out of the black kitchen 
window.  He saw a dark copy of the kitchen.  A transparent version.  
A plane flew through the kitchen.

He thought about tomorrow.  He was to visit his parents.  He will have 
dinner there.  A decent roast dinner, for a change.  There was no point
in his making a roast dinner for one.  He did not have lots of people
to cook for.  Just him.  It was not worth it.

He worked in a travel agency.  He booked people's holidays.  They go 
abroad for two weeks, Spain, usually, and get burnt, get drunk, get laid,

The kettle tutted.  The steam billowed out of the sprout.  It rose to the
ceiling, and crawled across it like fog over the sea's surface.  He poured
enough of the boiling water into each mug.  He put the kettle back into its
plinth, then opened the large fridge.  More light.  More white.  He liked
the jingletinkle the fridge made when he opened the door, all the glass
jars and bottles knocking together.  He liked the noises a fridge made in
general, as it goes through its rituals.  It comforted his at night as he
lay awake, sweating.

He got the milk out, put some in both mugs, put the milk back, and shut
the door.  There was a muffled jingletinkle.  The fridge lips stuck together,
sealing the door shut.  He put one big sugar in his, and none in hers.  He
did not know if she took sugar or not.  Probably won't.  Women usually don't.

He stirrede his, fished out the defunct tea bag, and slopped them into the 
bin, leaving a trail of brown spots on the work top from the mugs to the bin.  
He threw the spoon into the empty sink, and braced himself for the clatter.

He spilt some of the tea onto his bare feet as he ascended the staircase.  
He swore due to the pain.  When he got back to his bedroom she had gone. 		

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