07 November 2023
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Read James McCreet's suggested rewrite for Under the Microscope
Warm contentment permeates my body as I sink slowly from the peak of climax into the heavenly afterglow. My breath in the cold room creates a red glow around my alarm clock readout – 6.30 a.m. I look but there’s nobody beside me.
Musty cold and damp air rushes in as I raise the covers, chilling the horrible damp spot. Is that a hollow in the mattress? The shape of a body? A dream residue that is surely feminine?
At thirty-five, living at home with my mum is not something I chose nor something I could have predicted. Distant days of puberty and wet dreams, should remain just that. Yet here I am cleaning sheets for the fourth time this week.
I’d explain the excessive laundry to my parents, but would they understand? Probably not. I can picture Donald now, his devilish chevron brow twitching with delighted accusation.
‘Vince, you infant! It’s time you grew up.’
As always, I ignore such comments