I was masturbating over a cookery programme when the doorbell rang. It was Candice, and I buzzed her in.
Bugger Candice. It was the third time she had come around that day. Just because her mother was in hospital and she had no-one to trawl T.K.Maxx with was no reason for her to inflict herself on me. Besides, they were just building up to desserts, and I had a feeling that it was going to be a good one.
Candice, of course, pretended not to notice me hammering away at my lap, and stared into the middle distance for a while.
“Do you want coffee?” she said, blinking.
On the screen a bowl of unsuspecting strawberries were about to be violated in ways they could not begin to imagine.
I did not want coffee. I wanted the pictures from this week’s heat magazine, with the heads cut off stuck to the television just above where a cumquat was having its innards reamed with a vicious-looking whisk.
Candice sighed and went through to the kitchen. If she wasn’t such a witless bitch I would have sworn she said: “You’re so predictable”.
I pumped furiously, imagining Candice handling the sharp things in my kitchen until she ruined the image by returning. I turned my attention back to the television, which had the audacity to roll the credits.
“I’m thinking of going to Prague.” Candice said, setting fire to a Marlboro Light, which she intended to leave burning in the ashtray.
“Damn you!” I roared, grabbing the cigarette and ramming it into my right nostril, flipping channels furiously, in search of stimulation. “Harlot! Harpy! Jezebel! Who are you to deny me the sweet release promised by the Fettucine Alfredo with your Slovakian mutterings?”
Candice informed me that Prague was in Russia, actually. In response, I sprayed her with jissom across the face and neck.
She seemed to take this as an affront, but snorted into the froth of her cappuccino, covering herself in foam, in order to disguise the pearly droplets that beaded in her eyelashes.
“I’m thinking of writing a novel.”
I couldn’t take any more of this. I decided that she would have to die very soon. The only question was how.
“What are you reading?” She picked up the copy of Oliver Sacks’ "The Man who pushed his wife down the stairs, sliced her face off and Ate her Sinuses in the Mistaken Belief that she was An Omelette" I had left at a rakish angle on the coffee table. In my experience, neurology really turns stupid women on.
She surreptitiously rubbed her inner thigh, as she read the jacket blurb, and, unless I was very much mistaken I could see a nipple tightening beneath four layers of clothing.
I went and knelt beside her, accidentally blowing on her breasts with every syllable.
“It’s a book about the brain.” I snapped my fingers and the stereo sprang into life. The first, plaintive strings of Baccara’s “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie” began to fill the maisonette, like a wounded dove calling for its mate. My pelvis began to twitch.
Candice looked down at me, and plucked the cigarette from my nose with an expert touch.
“I love the brain. It’s so clever.” She blew a strand of hair which had drifted across her face back into place,