THE TEXT

The Life of Henry Fuckit
(1950 - 2015)

 

31   She makes the earth move under his feet

The birds had been chirping for half an hour when Henry threw aside the blanket and rose from his mattress. Standing naked at the south gable end of the loft he lifted the one-way hinged pigeon gate, arched his body and pointed his penis through the aperture. The morning was young and the coolest of fragrances wafted up from Kaye Goldblatt's medicinal herb garden. The night's accumulation poured forth in an elegant glittering curve, pattering down on the verdant growth below. The stream dwindled, faltered and dried up. Two feeble spurts. He shook the instrument, retracted the foreskin, shook it again. The jet of water hit the gable cladding to his right, steadied, and then struck him full in the groin. With a shout he leapt back and let the flap slam shut.

"Fuck it, man! What the bloody fucking hell?!" He found his towel and began to dry himself as he cautiously returned to the pigeon door. Slowly he opened it and peered out. Early sunlight glinted on her spectacles and her mouth was open in the widest, most delighted of childlike grins.

"Gotcha! You filthy bastard, stop pissing on my plants."

He pulled on his shorts, climbed down the ladder and went out to join her. "Here, hold this." He took the hose and watered the way she had shown him, gently, like soaking rain. She removed her glasses and began to dry them with her T-shirt. She held them up and inspected the lenses against the sky.

"Kaye." She glanced at him and he stared down at her. As she smiled at him the planet lurched on its axis, momentarily ceasing in its rotation. Jesus! This is the girl in the dream, the hypnagogic one.

"I - I've never seen you… without…" His voice trailed off.

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