According to ancient Taboola, whatever it was you were touching when you die you reincarnate as. When somebody thinks of you, you get to come back for a day. I just put down the teapot, as I was having a eureka moment when my heart jolted to a stop. Hey, I can’t complain I could have dropped the teapot and ended up on some landfill or recycled into an obscure piece of art placed on a wall in some filthy bookmaker’s toilet/masterbatorium.
Now I get to watch my widowed wife frolic and fornicate with all in sundry. She still hasn’t learned the etiquette of eye contact whilst having oral sex. Mavis, that’s her, no longer uses me for tea after buying one of those fancy coffee machines you order cartridges online which reflects our relationship in the last bleak, sexless years.
I sit on the windowsill with wilting flowers protruding out of me. Sharing my shelf are various ornaments all who have their own reincarnations. This makes it all the more embarrassing watching her mooching around the kitchen in her flabby underwear and my daughter she’s just the same still living at home at the age of twenty-five, truly the fat grapefruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Yes, I sound bitter, but they always ganged up on me sending me to an early grave with their complaints about my taste in music, how much money I bring home and how much alcohol I consumed to numb my brain from the anguish they bestowed. Now I get an eternity of a different type of torment was this some sick spin off-circle of Dante’s.
When I’m feeling low, Brendan reminds me that depression is an anagram of ‘I pressed on’. Brendan has come back as a greyhound. Mavis bought him at a flea market for two quid he was an antiques dealer and unbeknown to my wife he is a rare Staffordshire worth a fortune. I shouldn’t take comfort in this but the conversation she had with Beryl, our flirtatious, naturist, sexagenarian next-door neighbour, has me flipping my lid.
She was cheating on me with the paperboy – fucking paperboy. The worst of it is he is a thirty-year-old flunky who can’t hold a job down and has a drug problem. I know this because the cheapskate bought her a pink vase called Gemma, she’s to my left. He stole her from a charity shop on Greenwich high street.
“Ain't that right Gemma.”
“Yes Dave.”
Gemma doesn’t speak much, we don’t hear from her a lot, I don’t think people think about her that often. Anyway, like I said it could have been worse. I could have come back as the second to last thing I was holding which was an unwashed, gnarly sex toy. A strong ass-smell pulled my attention to the back of the sofa where I found it. I think it belongs to my neighbour.
“EWW,” said Gemma.
I shudder to think about that.
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