Maybe you don’t remember how it went, the three of us in that house, looking through cupboards, drawers, beneath beds. Gary found a vibrator and you said you knew what it was for, that you’d maybe used one, but Gary and me, we didn’t believe you. Maybe you don’t remember how it went. You made pancakes, set off the fire alarm, wafted a tea towel through smoke. We needed to walk the dog because, as you said, that’s what we were there to do anyway. We didn’t walk the dog. We slept the night because, as you said, it wasn’t a school night, and we’d be doing them a favour. Maybe you don’t remember how it went. It doesn’t matter that you chose me in the end because we both know you chose him first. We drank cider, watched Mr and Mrs Clarke doing it on their home-made videos. We watched The Life of Brian and The Simpsons. Gary and me both got hard-ons so you could measure them through our boxer shorts with that retractable, rusty metal tape, and then I threw up in the toilet. Then I saw you beneath Gary, his mouth open like a fish, his tongue speared through your head, your eyes closed, his eyes closed, your palms like starfish open on the small of his back, your legs either side of his waist, your hair falling over the settee and onto the floor, sweeping a chocolate bar wrapper back and forth. I slept in Mr and Mrs Clarke’s bed. The next morning you and Gary didn’t talk to one another. Maybe you don’t remember how it went. You told me you didn’t do it. Gary told me you did. I said I didn’t care anyway and we all went home, left the dog barking, spinning on the spot, demented, desperate to run and piss and shit. At school, in Science class, you whispered that my dick was bigger than Gary’s anyway. And then Nirvana mix-tapes, then Town on Friday nights, then the flat over the chippy, then your parents wouldn’t talk to us, then you fell in love with Eddie Vedder, then Ilfracombe and a ring, then Brit-pop, then I fell in love with the girl in Trainspotting, then the Twin Towers, then Sigur Ros, then Rose, then Blackthorn Avenue, then bombs went off underground, then James, then Bon Iver and how Holocene made you feel something between happy and sad and that’s all that matters in the end anyway, you said, or something like that. Then I forgave you a second time and you said we could have a dog as long as I walked it every day.
Adam writes in the Black Country, UK. He has been placed and shortlisted in several short story and flash fiction competitions, and has stories published in various places such as Spelk, Fictive Dream, STORGY, Retreat West and many others. Find these stories at adamlock.net and on Twitter @dazedcharacter.