Free Trust by Kate Veitch

loped up there. ‘G’day, mate,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his face and neck with his T-shirt. ‘You’re in early.’
    ‘Somebody has to try and keep this place afloat,’ said Marcus dourly. ‘And having been awake since four, I thought I might as well stagger in.’
    ‘Yeah? Going by the look of you, I’m amazed to hear you had any sleep at all.’
    ‘Oh, great. Do I really look that bad?’ As Marcus stood and looked toward the mirror hanging on the wall opposite, Gerry noticed how his podgy belly strained at the lower buttons of his shirt. Marcus groaned and frisked his fingers anxiously at his dark, thinning hair. ‘God, what a horror show. Fat, fifty, and balding. I can’t bear it.’
    ‘Fifty-two, if I’m not mistaken.’ Gerry dropped onto the black leather couch and stretched his long muscular legs out in front of him. ‘Don’t tell me: you had a visit from John.’ John was the married man with whom Marcus had been having a clandestine affair for years. Too many years. Right now they were trying to break it off, again, as one or the other periodically tried to do; agonising attempts, which never lasted.
    ‘No,’ said Marcus testily, plopping back into his Aero chair. ‘I did not have a visit from John.’
    ‘Ah. In that case, you were lying there all night wishing you’d had a visit from John. Honestly, Marco. I probably shouldn’t say this, but don’t you think it’s time you just —’ he made a slicing motion with one bladed hand ‘— killed it? Moved on?’
    ‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’ Marcus said. ‘Or trying to do.’ He glared unhappily at Gerry, and then his eyes welled and he swung around abruptly to dash the tears away, snatching a tissue from the box on his desk. ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered.
    ‘Oh, mate. Shit,’ said Gerry softly. Face creased with sympathy, he watched Marcus break a large piece from the muffin sitting on the desk and stuff it in his mouth. ‘Seriously. Wouldn’t you be better off with someone who’s properly gay? This bi crap … If John can’t even make up his mind which team he’s batting for, what chance have you got?’
    ‘ Thank you for that helpful comment, Gerald,’ said Marcus. ‘Can we not talk about this right now? I’m going to make a coffee.’
    ‘Good-oh. Make me one too.’ Gerry stood up, stretching his arms, elbows leading, far above his head, then ducked his nose toward his right armpit, sniffing. ‘Woof! I’m having a shower. Then I’ll fill you in on my latest stroke of genius: how we’re going to win the competition for the High Plains visitors’ centre.’
    ‘I’d rather you filled me in on how we’re going to pay the bloody wages bill next month. That’s what this outfit needs, not another dog-and-pony show.’
    Poor old Marco, he really is blue , Gerry thought as he soaped himself up in the shower at the rear of the office, next to the kitchenette. And his looks are definitely going. He ran his hand over his own flat belly, smug in the knowledge that his body was in as good shape as ever. Not an ounce of flab. Stronger than he’d been at twenty; erections like a stud bull’s. He stood with his legs apart and reached behind to wash between the cheeks of his arse; lifted his balls, a gratifyingly large handful, to wash beneath them; rolled back the foreskin of his uncut penis, rolling the head around with the pad of his thumb under the stream of water. Gerry liked his genitals. Plenty of admiring comments his tackle had earned.
    ‘ I can feel it, coming in the air tonight ,’ he sang as he dried off. Terrific song. One of his favourites. Humming the rest of the chorus under his breath, he tucked a periwinkle-blue shirt in to fresh jeans. He took his time combing his hair, using just enough product to hold it but still allow a boyish flop, and when it was right he spun 360 degrees before the mirror on the ball of one foot and gave his reflection a snappy wink.
    Visser Kanaley’s dozen or so