Middle Eight


Mark Blair is based in Broxburn and has been writing since his teens, in one form or another.
Twitter: @_markblair




Despite other intentions he awakes on the floor again. Briefly the eyes open, but only for a moment; just enough to know that it’s the same day just happening again. The time? Couldn’t say. Hazard a guess? Afternoon.

The sound from outside, the footfall passing the window. Ground level, you hear it all. The bus brakes screeching, the cars and the taxis. The conversations on phones. They’d have a look as they pass, through the gap in the curtains. What would they think? If they caught a glimpse of the figure on the floor?

Nothing.

Go on your way.

Things to be getting on with, but maybe later they’d mention in passing to friend or a lover:

Guess what I saw?

Isn’t that strange?

The dullness in his head, the sting in his eyes. Keep them closed. But the mind projects thoughts on to darkened eyelids.

Who was I talking to last night? In the pub by the water, how did I end up there?

She left me for some guy she met in Pilates...can you believe it?

Ha ha ha.

He rolls onto his side. The back has seized. Jesus fuck. What does he have to do with it? Died for our sins. And our sins, are they worthy of such sacrifice?

What would he say if he could see him now?

I think I made a big fucking mistake if you’re anything to go by.

The flat is cold. Luckily, he’s still in yesterday’s clothes. The shoes, the jeans and the jacket.

You need to get the boiler fixed; the nights are drawing in.

No need - we’ve got each other for warmth, so he used to say.

Not anymore.

Where is she now?

In his arms, in the throes of orgasmic bliss?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

No. No. No.

The stretching rack, the knee splitter, would be welcome reprieves from this. For nothing compares to torture by thought.

I’ve been seeing someone else.

And since then, she’s the only person he sees.

Everywhere. ●














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