Free Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander

of the call had been established.
    â€˜You don’t even know he was looking to move out, bimbo. Don’t you think you’ve been a bit premature?’ She mumbled something to Jakob.
    â€˜I didn’t call you for I told you so . I was hoping for some inspiration, stupidly.’
    â€˜Yes, sorry, wrong number. But think about it, my dear, he was paying you, wasn’t he?’
    â€˜You know, the fucked-up thing about all of this is I could forgo the intimacy – honestly, I can’t keep someone like him – but the thought of him leaving, of never having his form next to me in bed again, of never seeing him walk around here naked . . . now that is something I cannot let go of so easily.’
    â€˜Thanks for the visual imagery. You’re sounding pretty cut up about this one. I can’t believe Puppy is so under your skin. Please don’t cry over the phone like one of your usual break-ups . . .’
    â€˜If he wanted to be released from our current little arrangement,’ I continued, without acknowledging my mini-meltdown from three men back, ‘he didn’t need to go to the extreme of wasting money on rent with someone on Gumtree.’
    â€˜Well, what’s done can’t be un. I think you know deep down you were just using him as porn. At our age you’re lucky to have had that in bed with you for as long as you have.’
    â€˜Really? That’s it? Nothing more sage?’ She’d coached me through myriad failed dates, deflated one-night stands and the odd weeks-long tryst. Hanna was even gracious enough not to judge my dalliances with women.
    â€˜Even a puppy can only be kicked so many times before he runs away from his master. Get over it. It’s done. Now go read the book I bought you for your birthday.’
    â€˜Remind me why we’re friends?’
    â€˜Because I don’t let you wallow in your own shit. Have to run. Ciao ,’ she finished without irony, and the line went dead.
    I wiped away a token solitary tear. She was right, but then that was no surprise, because she always was. I’d dragged her through enough of my dramas (petty and otherwise) for her to be able to cut to the quick.
    I’d run out of wine but didn’t want to go down there while he was still in the flat. But, damn, how I needed a second drink if I was going on tonight and wanted to give a half-decent performance that was not diverted entirely by thoughts of Damon, and whether I would miss him, and how long it would be until he met another guy, or girl, and I’d be forced to endure god-awful moments of running into them on the scene pretending that I was never more than just a landlord who failed to charge a fee.
    I eventually found the courage to walk down the stairs, vowed that I would even be man enough to ask him to join me for another, at least end things on a note that was civil or even pleasant. But when I went inside the flat he was gone, as was his duffel bag. On one of my pillows was his grey come-rag, cradling his key. I poured myself a small glass of wine and took it like a shot, then did another. I wasn’t afraid of loneliness but I sure hated the feeling of regret.

 Six 

    I t was the first funeral I’d been to. It was nothing like I expected, not the same as those projected onto cinema screens. It was sombre, yes, and silent, but the mood of humility clinging to the air was almost suffocating. My mother remained largely underwrought and this set the scene for how I was expected to act. A void had entered my existence, and in that realisation I thought how strange it was to feel emptiness had arrived, rather than, as I had been expecting, that something of weight would have been lifted. I stared blankly at the wooden box a few metres in front of me and, though I tried hard not to entertain it, wondered what Pa looked like now, inside it. Would his eyes be open or closed? Would his skin be grey or