Second date. And in a few demeaning minutes I’m hard. Lights flickering seething green glass. Our rhythms would fit. Not like the last pitiful little shit. Leaving her alone at the bar while he slung congealed bog roll in the toilets. As my Zen master once said:
‘the tiny can be tiring.’
His calm voice radiates present-time, shaking the dust out of my head. She smiles radiant. Elegiac. Taking her to this budget-style franchise? I need to beg for forgiveness. I pull my gaze away from her breasts. Suddenly, I remember seeing a man on a TV documentary who had been castrated voluntarily.
He said he had never felt so free.