Apathy

by Jack

I’m finding it tough going at the moment … this keeping awake business. All I want to do is fall asleep. Every time I sit down; five minutes of watching the news and I’m off, sound asleep. Two paragraphs into a book and bang; I’m in dream land.

‘I think I need some exercise, some fresh air,’ I said to Mrs, who for three or four seconds held a fork full of chips half way to her mouth while someone in neighbours said they didn’t love such and such anymore.

‘Are you saying I’m fat?’

She looked at me with her accusing defensive manner with the fork still in limbo. I sighed, then grinned inanely.

‘Not in a facetious way, darling.’

‘Humph,’ she retorted as the chips finally made it to their penultimate destination.

‘How about, you and me go for a walk later?’ I said on my way to the kitchen carrying my empty plate. Mrs followed with hers and put it in the sink along with other dirty dishes.

‘Well?’ I said snapping the yellow marigolds on like an expert mortician.

‘It’s raining outside,’ she said while scraping something into the bin before placing another plate into the now foaming sink.

‘Oh, is it?’ I said, genuinely disappointed while twitching my nose. Why is it, every time I put rubber gloves on my nose gets itchy?

She left to watch the rest of Neighbours.

I rubbed my nose on my shoulder to stop it itching, and continued tidying up. I returned to the lounge just as the six o’clock news started, and handed Mrs her cup of tea with a Blue Ribbon. I sat back down with mine and looked at the paper’s TV section to see what was on the box later; nothing, I might have known.

‘One hundred channels, and not a thing to watch,’ I said for the umpteenth night in a row. She sighed with what sounded to me like ‘you are now boring me to tears. Will you stop bloody moaning please?’

‘We could always try some sexercize?’ I said looking at her with a hopeful twinkle.

‘On a weeknight ... you and me ... and ... sex?’ she scoffed somewhat quickly, like it was a well prepared statement.

‘I’m all for experimenting,’ I said still hopeful. ‘Having two shaves in one week won’t kill me, will it?’

‘Feel free to experiment on yourself, lover-boy.’

The Ice maiden raised her eyebrows, a false cheesy smile followed; a double whammy. Her feelings towards mid-week sex were made quite clear.

‘Bitch,’ I muttered under my breath. Not too low, I wanted her to hear what I said.

‘Away you go for a pint. And stop being so … annoying!’

She stroked the remote she had primed on the arm of the chair in readiness for the evening’s soaps.

‘I might just do that,’ I said victoriously. I disguised the inner joy, and stopped myself grinning with an apathetic yawn.

Jack, you managed that situation quite well, I thought as I closed the back door on my way out.

Jack writes about his non-existence and mundane surroundings while hoping that one day he'll find it's all been a bad dream, and he is in fact a muti-millionaire who lost his memory in a boating accident. More of Jack's pathetic life can be found here.