Peter's Noise.

Peter’s laugh is strained, high-pitched, wheezy. Someone not in the room may have confused the noise with the screams of live crabs in a pot. But Peter didn’t have a kitchen, or the money for crab, or the opportunity to visit the seaside to catch his own. No, Peter lived at 435 Swinson Avenue. Also home to Rachel, Sam and Dave, with whom he was sharing his piercing joy in the TV room. His face red from happiness and the scars of a near lifetime of drink.

For now Peter has company, but when the ward shuts down, and they are to return to their beds, he’ll wheel the small television and its stand into his room. Once he’s done his nighttime business and kissed the photo of Beer, his old dog, Peter will scour the TV Guide. Like a seagull after a school of fish, Peter has honed a special sense. He will scan each movie for (n) and (s) classifications, the country of origin, then the language, and finally, the actresses. With all this information, Peter will select the most likely to contain sex or masturbation or a voyeuristic shower scene, switch out the light and make his final wheezing noise for the night.

Explaining, because, you know, I’m so intelligent and that.

“Honey, what’s a mezzanine?”

“Well, in architecture a mezzanine’s like an intermediate floor between main floors of a building.”

“Right. So you’d call it a, I don’t know, place to hang out?”

“Kinda. Think of it like this: your shins are a sidewalk.”

“Here we go… fuck, Robbie, can’t you just…”

“Woah Cowgirl, let me finish. Yeah?”

“Ok.”

“Right. Your shins are a sidewalk…” I waited for her sigh, and it came, “and your thighs are a boulevard. Then you have the lobby between your thighs. This is where travelling salesman can check-in, and check out, if you get me?”

“Robbie…”

“In this instance, the mezzanine would be the navel. Your navel. Your breasts are a main floor, and your mouth is the penthouse apartment. One can’t sleep in the lobby, you see, but one can spend a lot of time in the penthouse. Drinking wine, eating cake. Talking shit.”

“And right about now you’re talking about sex, is that right?”

“Sex and mezzanines and cake. Yep.”

“You’re an idiot. I’m going back to drawing pictures of possums.”

And so she did. She drew pictures of possums and drank whiskey straight like I never could. The smoke I blew into the wind didn’t bother her, even as a non-smoker. It was as if thick velour drapes were blocking the smoke, splitting it in two, washing past her head, like a great wave against a million-year-old rock. Not that she looked like a rock.

Well, not a rock without features, anyhow.

Candles and Curry.

“Find me one good reason”, Jack challenged, pointing to his boner.

“Maybe you just like long, hard, hot candles.” Sally joked.

“I’ve never had a boner during a séance, and rarely over a candlelight dinner – except, you know, when a nipple slip or thigh rub was involved.”

“Could have something to do with the wax. Isn’t that a fetish?”

“I’m pretty sure my only fetish has to do with feet.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“You going to finish that?” Sally rarely finished her curry. Tuesday was Curry Night, followed by Tight Arse Tuesdays at the cinema.

“My belly isn’t too crash hot today. And I’m not sure Mission Impossible needs the extra colon explosion.”

“Why have we never worked, Sal? As a couple, I mean.”

“Jack – we’ve been over this before. You snore. You hate Politics. And you’re an idiot. Not to mention a misogynist.”

“I’ll misogynise you if you’re not careful.”

“There you go – plain idiot.”