sees the cardiganed girls of hisuniversity past. Yes, his colleagues on his economics BA, the ponytailed frigids that had marvelled at his beauty and at the confident strides with which he entered the lecture theatre. Perhaps, thinks Steve, drying himself, I should have married one of them, seduced a little Mary or a little Jane, bought her fancy lingerie and had kids and discussed the misery and injustices of the open market, the merits of globalisation.
âNo,â he says to himself, rising like a dancer to meet his gaze in the mirror, the red towel falling off his blond hair.
âNo way,â he says again, shocked anew by the symmetry of his features. His haircut perched on his scalp like an endangered bird. No way, indeed. Because you die, he thinks, yeah, because you die and should never miss the chance to feel some real beauty. He leaves the bathroom and returns to the bedroom, picks up the condoms and flings them towards the bin. They go straight in. Good. Because you die.
An hour later, as Steve pulls his Audi TT out of the underground car park of his apartment block, the decision has been made. No more bullshit blow jobs at the breakfast bar. Anal, thatâs the ticket. All the rucksacked girls of his middle youth are gone, only Carly remains. Carly, whose knickers match her brain and whose bra matches her heart. Carly, itâs impossible to imagine her heart as anything but tailored, designed with tomorrowâs sex in mind. She has thighs that remind the normal boys of absolute joy. Perfectly curved. But anal, thinks Steve, rejecting distraction, analâs the ticket.
Steve pulls the car on to Upper Brook Street, heading south, past the instantly outdated flats built around the turn of the twentieth century. He feels perfectly entitled to playthe economy of sex. Sex is his way of solving things. Before now he might have spoken, turned a phrase or placed a kiss. But few turn phrases nowadays. Most bang away at another, eyes shut, just breathy hissing coming from their tightened lips. Carly robbed me, he thinks, anal will make me a man once more. Traffic lights go red, he checks his phone: no word from Carly. The lights go green.
He turns right off Upper Brook Street, down Moseley Road, through Fallowfield, then Withington, past the cancer hospital and its air of glassy, transparent dread, then further south to Didsbury. There is sunlight and the streets have been cleaned. Didsbury âVillageâ, as itâs curiously known, is dominated by franchise restaurants. Steve parks up then buys a copy of the
Financial Times
in a newsagentâs. He exits the shop, the pink paper folded under his arm. A man walks by with cardboard coffee cups for hands. No, not that. Normality. A brunette jogs past in tight shorts and sports bra, her tongue visible like the tip of a violet lipstick. No, no, normality. Steve crosses the road.
He has travelled to Didsbury to meet Frank. Frank is a fat twat. Heâs sitting sipping a latte on the terrace of a franchise Italian. He has a papier-mâche head and a gut like an incoming tide. Frank is Steveâs guru, an expert in investment and risk, the reason for Steveâs burgeoning wealth. Frank spends his days relocating his money and watching his bank account swell. His nights are spent bantering with the prostitutes of Cheshire. Invariably, as the sun rises, Frank finds himself drunk, protruding like a human-shaped tumour out of the back of some high-quality call girl.
âIâve done it again, my boy,â says Frank, through a terribly deep, Adamâs-appley laugh. âIâve done it again. Waiter. Another latte!â
Steve takes a seat opposite Frank, the glass table a circle of bright reflection, as if a miniature sun shines between them, supporting drinks. He waits for the guttural reverb of Frankâs laugh to fade, then watches as the rough, fatty tides of Frankâs cheeks turn to a ripple and then settle around his wet,
âNo,â he says to himself, rising like a dancer to meet his gaze in the mirror, the red towel falling off his blond hair.
âNo way,â he says again, shocked anew by the symmetry of his features. His haircut perched on his scalp like an endangered bird. No way, indeed. Because you die, he thinks, yeah, because you die and should never miss the chance to feel some real beauty. He leaves the bathroom and returns to the bedroom, picks up the condoms and flings them towards the bin. They go straight in. Good. Because you die.
An hour later, as Steve pulls his Audi TT out of the underground car park of his apartment block, the decision has been made. No more bullshit blow jobs at the breakfast bar. Anal, thatâs the ticket. All the rucksacked girls of his middle youth are gone, only Carly remains. Carly, whose knickers match her brain and whose bra matches her heart. Carly, itâs impossible to imagine her heart as anything but tailored, designed with tomorrowâs sex in mind. She has thighs that remind the normal boys of absolute joy. Perfectly curved. But anal, thinks Steve, rejecting distraction, analâs the ticket.
Steve pulls the car on to Upper Brook Street, heading south, past the instantly outdated flats built around the turn of the twentieth century. He feels perfectly entitled to playthe economy of sex. Sex is his way of solving things. Before now he might have spoken, turned a phrase or placed a kiss. But few turn phrases nowadays. Most bang away at another, eyes shut, just breathy hissing coming from their tightened lips. Carly robbed me, he thinks, anal will make me a man once more. Traffic lights go red, he checks his phone: no word from Carly. The lights go green.
He turns right off Upper Brook Street, down Moseley Road, through Fallowfield, then Withington, past the cancer hospital and its air of glassy, transparent dread, then further south to Didsbury. There is sunlight and the streets have been cleaned. Didsbury âVillageâ, as itâs curiously known, is dominated by franchise restaurants. Steve parks up then buys a copy of the
Financial Times
in a newsagentâs. He exits the shop, the pink paper folded under his arm. A man walks by with cardboard coffee cups for hands. No, not that. Normality. A brunette jogs past in tight shorts and sports bra, her tongue visible like the tip of a violet lipstick. No, no, normality. Steve crosses the road.
He has travelled to Didsbury to meet Frank. Frank is a fat twat. Heâs sitting sipping a latte on the terrace of a franchise Italian. He has a papier-mâche head and a gut like an incoming tide. Frank is Steveâs guru, an expert in investment and risk, the reason for Steveâs burgeoning wealth. Frank spends his days relocating his money and watching his bank account swell. His nights are spent bantering with the prostitutes of Cheshire. Invariably, as the sun rises, Frank finds himself drunk, protruding like a human-shaped tumour out of the back of some high-quality call girl.
âIâve done it again, my boy,â says Frank, through a terribly deep, Adamâs-appley laugh. âIâve done it again. Waiter. Another latte!â
Steve takes a seat opposite Frank, the glass table a circle of bright reflection, as if a miniature sun shines between them, supporting drinks. He waits for the guttural reverb of Frankâs laugh to fade, then watches as the rough, fatty tides of Frankâs cheeks turn to a ripple and then settle around his wet,
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