By Richard Al Ledger

“How did it get this time already!?

I thought I had loads of time. I thought I had so much time that I was feeling quite relaxed about the whole situation. I'd been counting down the hours – gawd – the minutes until I knew I had to leave, ever since I woke up this morning even but now, I'm somehow late!?”

Michael stood in front of the mirror, freshly out of the shower, a damp pink towel clung to his waist. His frame was thin and pale, his skin almost translucent under the white bathroom light. Around his middle, a soft, bulbous ring of flab clung around his torso.

“Did I fall asleep?” Michael was feeling anxious, his shrivelled fingers when inspected aloft held a tremor. “Have I passed out with stress? I couldn't have, I'd been on the sofa the whole entire time. Perhaps an anxiety fed time lapse?”

Of course, deep down he knew what it was really, he'd been sucked into the black hole again – “God damn doom scrolling!”

He looked at his phone clutched within his right hand and re read the text message conversation he'd had with her a few days ago for what had to be the hundredth time. Feeling a flush of both dread and excitement in his chest, he took a prolonged breath and sucked his top lip. He swiped to close the app. A beautiful looking blonde woman with large breasts now on his phone, she was straddled on a large rock on a tropical beach, her skin and appearance perfect in highly edited form.

“How long have I been watching these videos of unattainable blonde women that keep popping up on my feed? How do I get them off my phone!? How did they get there to begin with!? Get your head out of your ass! God I'm so depressed!”

“Which trousers should I wear?” He was marching up and down his small bedroom now completely naked. The curtains were drawn as they were most of the time day or night. “What colour socks? Come on pal, get real! Nobody is going to see them anyway – WHERE ARE ALL OF MY SOCKS!? There they are.”

He stood in his room and looked around, there were pairs of socks all over the floor. “Jesus, my apartment is such a tip! I can't even see the floor any more its so full of clutter. Why don't I just gut the place and start again from scratch? Could I feasibly afford a cleaner? She'd be an incredibly hot blonde woman and slowly fall in love with me, more and more over a period of weeks, she'd leave me little jokes, slip in the odd naughty innuendo when we chatted – that would be perfect. I could just pay her to both clean my house and be my girlfriend, very transactional, sort of like prostitution, but in a more pleasant way? An agreement that could work for the both of us – know where we both stood – know that she would be guaranteed to stay with me as long as I paid her a weekly salary.”

Michael pondered the thought for a moment and noticed growth within the elastic of his underpants. Maybe that wasn't such a terrible idea, though nothing he could action on right at this very moment. It'd have to wait, but definitely something to ponder further later he decided, as he finished getting dressed.

“I can't find my keys, why must I always put them somewhere different every time I enter the house? Why oh why must I put myself through this same horrific rigmarole every single time I have to leave the God damn mother fucking hou – there they are.”

Michael was now forty-four and working as the team leader for a large corporate communications company. Since the break up he had dated a few women occasionally, unsuccessfully, though truthfully none in a while. Recently he'd come to terms that he could be single forever and conceivably, this could be it. That he'd missed his window of opportunity, that it was of his own doing and he deserved the repercussions – he thought about this often.

He didn't mind the thought of being alone as such, but seeing some of his co workers and the few friends he did have with their own children and partners seemingly happy left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The birthdays and the holiday periods he found the most difficult, sat alone on his couch with his books – staring into the blank television that stared back.

“I can't believe I'm going to be late, I've not seen her for seven years – what happened to all that time? I've been in this stinking tiny apartment ever since then, piece of shit I should really move out. The paint peeling around the shower cubicle, the dead plants, I hate my neighbours, the bin is always full! It's so expensive, but where isn't these days? I can't believe I'm going to be late!”

He stood again in front of the mirror, now fully dressed in a light blue nylon shirt buttoned to the neck and a pair of sand coloured chino trousers, scuffed brown loafers adorned his feet.

“Finally, I think I'm about ready to go” Gawping at himself. “Jesus these trousers make me look frumpy! And this pudge amassing about my gut – maybe all those cheese puffs are starting to catch up to me? I should start doing sit ups every morning...but I just don't have time!” He tugged the shirt from his waistband above the belt of his trousers, letting the hem fall loosely, exposing the wrinkled fabric. “Never mind, I'll just wear my shirt out, go casual.” He attempted to flatten the creases out patting firmly with his hand, to no avail. “Gawd, look at me already – an ugly mutt – I should have shaved again – is that a pimple?” He picked at a small red blotch on his left cheek, leaning his face in towards the mirror.

“I hope she likes these glasses, they're like my old ones. I wonder what happened to those?” He pulled his hairline back unveiling a large forehead. “My hair has been thinning recently, perhaps I should wear a baseball cap?” He allowed his hair to flop back down, his shoulders sagged. “I miss her. I wonder if she'll reminisce with me about the old times.”

Michael walked down the steps of his old apartment building, his open palm catching on a fleck of green lead paint on the hand rail, making him cuss under his breath. He walked across the street at the third attempt, traffic hurtling both ways with little regard for pedestrians or animals. Entering the small dented jalopy, he noticed a logo transfer for a takeaway which had been scratched out on the passenger door.

“I ordered this cab thirty minutes ago, I wish he'd get a move on!” Michael stared at the back of the drivers bald head, intently scanning the cratered scalp and turkey neck, though conscious not to catch his eye in the rearview mirror. “I should drop him a hint, tell him I'm late, late for a funeral. My dead aunt, aunt Gina – I'll tell him that she died of lung cancer and she didn't even smoke the poor soul, that'll really pull at his heart strings.”

The small dented cab was moving through the city, passing all sorts of weirdo's and bums, old ladies with shopping bags and wire framed trolleys, food delivery drivers on electric bikes with a death wish flew in all directions like dreamt figures. The car scooted over a speed bump outside of a high school that sent the vehicle momentarily air bound.

“Watch for the speed bumps asshole!?” Michael grabbed the arm rest on the passenger seat tightly with one hand and the head rest in front with the other. “If I wasn't wearing my seatbelt I'd have hit my head, maybe gone through the roof even! Imagine that?”

As the car settled back into rhythm, taking a sharp left turn he pondered. “Actually, I could really do with the pay off money, hopefully he'll do it again” He looked down at the battered belt buckle inquisitively “Maybe I'll just press this release mechanism here and hold it across my waist with my arm weight instead, he'll never know. Yeah do it again, you sucker, see what you get. Cha-ching!”

There were no more speed bumps. Michael got out of the cab a couple of shop fronts down from the place they'd agreed to meet. Paying the silent bald man with a note through the driver window, lingering awkwardly until he received his change in full. He counted his coins and, when satisfied he'd gotten the correct money, patted the car roof as it pulled away from the curb at a pace.

He began to walk towards the watering hole, noticing at a few older gentlemen whom were sporting almost perfectly matching checkered scarfs, drinking pints of bitter. They were stood organised in an inward facing circle, almost ritualistic, at the front of the pub chatting and laughing. He could feel his heart pumping through his chest, the beads of sweat on his forehead were gathering with sufficient rate to fall at any moment.

His knees felt unsteady, and – strangely – he'd become acutely aware of his spinal cord, as if it no longer belonged to him, not really. Was he walking oddly? He couldn't tell. Suddenly, every step felt deliberate, his posture and pace a conscious effort. He didn't want to look foolish, not to stand out, not to seem like someone who didn't belong there.

He just wanted to make a good impression. To be remembered differently – more fondly – than the last time they had spoken, that day, outside of the animal pound.

As he was walking he noticed something just outside his direct line of site, laying there, stretched out along the blue and white tiled window recess of the old fish mongers which neighboured the pub. It was a man, he was in nothing more than what you could call rags. Torn brown corduroy trousers with gashes in the knees, no shoes or socks exposing sooty dirt underfoot, wearing only a baggy stained grey wife beater vest and the occasional hand pricked prison tattoo on his torso. He had a visible open wound on his head, eyes that were not closed nor open.

“Is he fucking dead?” He stopped to look over the prone man, but did not help him. “What is this world coming too when the dead are just splayed out on the pavement like this?” He got closer, slowly, not wanting to wake the man if he was instead just asleep and not entirely dead. “I believe he's dead, he smells dead, it's probably better that he is dead! One less mouth to feed by the government. They need to bring back the dead collectors to the streets if this sort of thing is happening more regularly, bloody druggies. I can't believe tax payers have to put up with and see this kind of shit in a civilised society!”

Further up the street past the venue Michael could see a small congregation of women, each was wearing at least one fluorescent pink garment item. They were chanting in unison, led by one particularly loud older lady sporting a large pink afro wig, she was standing apart from the rest of the group, whom he presumed was some sort of ring leader. Not quite able to hear all of the words together clearly enough to make a full sentence, he could just about make out “uterus” and “choice” within the distant hubbub.

“Another protest!?” Michael shook his head, stepping over the motionless potentially dead body. He sought eye contact with one of the scarfed men, looking for a shared annoyance to the unnecessary noise, but noticeably none met his gaze. “This all started when people who had legs that didn't function properly couldn't access floors in buildings that they wanted to get too, and wouldn't stop complaining about it! Then the fags and the communists wanted to be heard, and now look at us, as a society, everyone wants to moan about everything! What could these women want to moan about? They've probably not had an orgasm in thirty years! Why is that my problem!?”

Walking intentionally through the circle of the scarfed, Michael gripped the large brass handle bar attached to the front door of the pub, he paused momentarily, taking a breath, before pulling it open. It wouldn't budge, not an inch, as much as he tried the door wouldn't open, it was stuck. Until he noticed the small brass sign above the handle – “push.”

Michael walked into the pub, it wasn't quiet nor was it particularly busy. A few tables were occupied by mostly middle aged couples drinking beer and wine, sitting opposite one another – some not talking much, a few not at all, just sitting in silence staring into the space between one another.

His ex-wife was nowhere in sight, she was late too it appeared, so he headed to the narrow bar to order a drink and wait for her there. He found himself next to a man unsteady on his feet, lurched, a pint glass loose in one hand, a packet of cheese puffs open on the bar. He turned to eye Michael as he approached.

“Alright?” The drunken man said. He was old and had loose skin around his jowls. Beady eyes poked through thick wiry grey eyebrows and a swollen reddened round nose dominated his face. He looked familiar to Michael somehow.

“Yes, alright.” Michael replied politely – the first words he'd spoken aloud all day. A short barman approached, waiting expectantly. “A bottle of beer, please. Anything ordinary.”

An uneasy silence hung between him and the drunk – one Michael was all too aware of. He was certain the man was staring at him, though he had no interest in turning to confirm it. The drunk’s breath reeked of cigarettes, synthetic cheese flavouring, and a smell something that Michael recognised as regret.

“Would you like to hear a joke?” The drunk man said after a while, quietly, as Michael was passed his beer.

“Sure.”

“It's a good one.”

“I said yes.”

The drunk man coughed and straightened, more upright than before, his loose fingers still wrapped around the pint glass. It was as if a white spotlight had suddenly lit him up – centre stage in an important scene only he could feel. Still, Michael refused to meet his eye.

“A woman was walking home with her three daughters,” the man began, a newfound purpose sharpening his voice. “The eldest turns to her and asks, ‘Mother, how did I get my name?’ The mother smiles and says, ‘Well, sweetheart, when we were bringing you home from the hospital, a rose petal fell on your head. That’s why we named you Rose.’”

The man, enjoying the attention lauded on him from Michael, paused for a moment, taking a sip of beer that dribbled somewhat out of the corner of his mouth. He reached the fingers of his other hand into the bag of cheese puffs but left it there.

“Then the second daughter, now curious, asks the same question,” the man continued, eating one of the maize puffs then wiping his chin. “‘Well, darling,’ the mother says, ‘when we were bringing you home from the hospital, a lily petal landed on your head. That’s why we named you, Lily.’”

Michael knew that the punchline was approaching, he took a swig of beer and couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the drunk man's sinister sideways glance as he too took another long drink, almost draining the pint glass.

“Then the third daughter said –” The drunk abruptly cut himself off, smirked, and let out a guttural, horrid noise “UUUGHHHHH! EUHHHHHHHHHH! EWWWWHHHHHHH!!”

He slammed both hands down on the wet beer mats, knocking over his glass in the process, allowing what was left inside to trickle out onto the bar top. The bag of cheese puffs scattered seemingly everywhere. Michael instinctively took a step back, caught off guard by the sudden outburst and shrieking.

“To which the mother suddenly said –” the man continued with a wild grin, “SHUT UP, CINDERBLOCK!”

Michael heard a sudden burst of hysterical laughter, followed by a sharp voice from the other side of the bar, it sounded almost reptilian “Alright you – out!”

A commotion broke out, he heard the sound of a chair been knocked over onto the hard wood floor, then a scream and a noise he'd never heard before in his life. He tried to regain his composure as for a moment everything was a blur – a momentary dream like state. He took a breath, trying to steady himself.

“I was just telling a joke to the nice gentle man!?”

“I don't care, I've had enough – you have to leave!”

“For pity's sake!”

“Pity! Terror!”

“Trevor?”

“Don't call me by that name!”

“Michael – Is that you, Michael?”

Alice was now thirty-nine. Michael studied her face closely, he noticed new lines that had settled in over the last seven years. Laugh lines across her eyes which he enjoyed, but also deeper ones etched across her forehead and chin. She looked sadder in this moment than he remembered; the corners of her mouth dipped subtly, giving her an air of quiet resignation. Still, she dressed as she always had – plain, but in colours that flattered her pale complexion and long straight dark hair.

They’d found a quiet corner of the pub. Michael sat on a low stool while she took the booth. He couldn’t help but notice she was seated slightly higher than him in this arrangement, and for some reason, that bothered him.

“So, how've you been?” She said quietly.

“I've not been too bad, thanks.” Michael replied, he really needed to piss.

The urge to piss had come out of nowhere but was prevalent and all he could think about. His bladder was full, his leg rocking wildly without having the desired effect, that to ease the innate desire of pissing directly onto and all over the floor. Yet he thought it polite to continue the conversation for now, they'd only just sat down and the conversation had already began somewhat awkwardly with the drunk man's outrage and the fall out thereafter.

“So.” She said, still quiet.

“It's strange, isn't it.”

“What is?”

“This. Seven years later. You look older.”

“Thanks.”

“Not in a –”

“So do you, you know.”

She leaned in and took a long look at his face, then scanned him to the toes, craning over the table even more to get a better look.

“I know I do.” He replied sullenly.

“And you're getting fat.”

“I know I am.”

“And you're losing your hair – did you know that too?”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence again. They could hear the tick and every tock of a nearby clock. The mood was sour, coiled tight with old resentment, memories rehashed.

“You were late.”

“You're – a real prick.” She had more vigour in her voice now, laced with venom.

“Are you still a junkie?” Michael shot back, eyes flat, the words out before he could think – maybe because he wanted them to hurt, maybe because he knew deep down he really was a prick.

The air thickened. Both reached for their drinks, as if instinct alone might defuse the moment.

“You fucking asshole.”

“Well?”

She didn't answer. Not really. She just looked away. The silence telling him everything he needed to know. He wanted it to go better, it'd been seven years after all, but now he knew already that it was over.

“I'm going for a piss.”

He pushed open the green door, which swung back hard, the inside handle clanging sharply against the white-painted breeze block wall. Inside, three yellowing porcelain urinals sat elevated on a brick trough, lined up opposite a single toilet cubicle. A small, greying sink was mounted nearby, with a tiny square mirror hanging above it – it was barely big enough to see his own eyes together.

He chose the middle urinal, popping out his penis from the trousers he still felt uncomfortable in, taking a long piss. As he began to urinate, he let his head fall back, neck limp, eyes drifting up to the flaking paint on the ceiling and brown smears. A long breath escaped him. He couldn't believe how the last five minutes had transpired. That whole build up, him reaching out to her with a drunk message and the subsequent texts back and forth over the last few weeks had come down to this. What was worse was he still did love her.

He knew it the moment he heard her voice again.

“Hey.”

There was a whisper from – somewhere. Michael looked around, there was nobody here – he was sure of it – the way you can sense another consciousness in an enclosed environment. He finished his piss, shook off the excess and zipped up his trousers. Choosing to ignore the voice, he must have imagined it.

“Hey!” No, there it was again.

He headed to the sink and sprayed his hands with water. He looked at himself in the tiny mirror, he sure looked old now, his eyes puffy with stress. He smoothed the cold water through his hair, and beneath the thinning crown, his scalp showed pale and exposed.

“Hey” There it was again. It felt closer this time.

He moved over to the cubicle and gently pushed the door open, not sure if he would be met by a shitting man or a pair of pale bare arse cheeks. He peered through the crack in the door, opening slowly, and when sure there was nobody there, he let it open fully, staring down at the commode.

“Let me tell you something Michael, something you need to remember.”

The voice was coming from the bowl water at the bottom of the toilet. It was like an echo, leaving a slight ripple as the voice travelled upward through it.

"What you perceive is just a reflection, shaped by thought, filtered through feeling. The voice inside – that quiet current of thought – he is not a stranger. It is you, Michael. And like breath, it can be observed, softened, redirected. You are not bound to it. You are the awareness behind it. Do you understand Michael?"

Michael just stood, staring down at the toilet, watching the water move.

“Do you understand, Michael?”

Michael told the toilet that he did.

Michael left the bathroom with a purpose. He took a sharp right turn, passing an old grey crooked man, he was asleep and alone inside one of the booths – a bottle of beer on the table, an empty bag of cheese puffs rested on his lap.

He wanted it to be different this time. The voice was right, he could control his own narrative, his own thoughts, whether he chose to be happy or not, he deserved better – she deserved better. But when he approached the table they had been sat at, he noticed that she was already talking to someone else, another man.

Michael approached them both, hovering over the new person, his eyes fixed on the back of his head. Up close, it was clear that they were both deep in conversation. Alice was laughing, she looked happy, the new lines around her eyes he'd noticed earlier came alive when she smiled, and it pleased him.

“Alice, I need to talk to you urgently.”

Alice didn't budge, didn't even flinch. It was like she didn't hear him, either that or chose not to acknowledge him at all.

“Alice please let's start over again.”

She did not respond.

“Please Alice.”

Nothing.

“I'm begging you, Alice.”

She continued to talk to the new man – sitting where Michael had once sat not five minutes before – not even pausing to acknowledge his return. Her voice flowed easily, unbroken, as if he wasn't even there at all. She just spoke over him.

He had been erased – he was gone – no longer meaningful. Irrelevant, replaced, re-written. It was then that he knew he had to leave.

“I'm sorry, Alice. I'm sorry for being a bastard. I'm sorry for not being there for you when you needed me. For not sticking up for us, not fighting for us. If I could do it all over again I would – I think that I could, but it's obvious now that you can not.”

He knew that she wouldn't reply or acknowledge him, but he needed to say it out loud. It had been eating him alive for the last seven years during every quiet moment. He hoped that now, at least, that it would be allowed to leave his body.

More importantly, he hoped that she could stay happy. He hoped that the lines around her eyes only deepened with laughter over time.

He left the pub and looked up at the fluffy white clouds in the sky, they were moving at a pace. The scarfed men and the protesting women had all left now, and all that remained were some scattered orange crisp bags blowing in the warm wind.

There, tied loosely to a rusted lamp post with a frayed rope, sat a dog. Their dog – the one he and Alice had bought as a puppy, not long before it all began to unravel.

It stared at him calmly, as if recognizing something old and buried. Michael stared back. For a moment, time stood still. It was beautiful. He never did find out it's name.

“Hello, you.”

The dead body from earlier approached the dog, crouched beside it, untied it and walked down the street. The dog didn't look back at Michael, instead staring upwards adoringly at its owner, as if it had only ever belonged to him.

Michael just stood, watching them disappear into the distance, feeling the wind hit his face. He felt untethered, as though he’d been dreaming someone else’s life all of this time and had just now woken up in his own.

End.