Matty slouched in the doorway, smoked his millionth cigarette. Farm workers, friends bustled hither, thither before his eyes. Tired Matty, nine am Monday morning Matty exhaled his fog of fag. Fog drifted to the face, it stayed. He swept an arm, fanned his faggage and the cloud surrounded his features.
‘Fellas,’ he cried. Nobody stopped to look.
‘Cup of tea?’ he said. No one wavered in their stride.
He collected his broom, swept the tea room, swept the feathers, the dirt, crisps and his foot, swept his foot to the corner.
‘Bugger,’ said Matty, hobbled to his foot and placed it in the bin.
‘Thank god for Spring,’ he thought, dreamed of tractors mowing lawns, his high chair upon the tractor. Straight lines of grass were delicious.
He returned to the doorway, sparked cigarette number one million and one.
‘Imagine, a cigarette for every time I performed intercourse…’ he said ruefully – to himself, performer, hag-queen on a farm yard. ‘imagine, crikey, that would be like a boat trip, return from France, my arms laden with tobacco.’ He felt himself aroused, so smoked more vigorously. Blood squeezed down ventricals, vestibules, ventilation shafts, somewhere that was once good but now only tingled like his palms, tangled in a pubic minefield. [Ehmm..]
He was flaccid, really he was a flaccid man enclosed in a stinky mist. He reached for his broom, shoved it underarm, staggered toward the chickens in their chicken shed. He would go talk to chickens in the dark shed.
Look, listen…this story is certainly and definitely not me. For goodness sake people I have photographs, young and virile, right.