Phillip, I said, taking his clammy pale paw into my own, the pressure of affection marking his dimpled, fatty knuckles white. Phillip it's over, I've been two timing you with a nineteen year old. Sour smelling tears swelled from the corners of his tiny wise eyes. Droplets hung in dollops from his transparent, piggy eyelashes as he unhooked a pair of seventies, gold rimmed aviator spectacles from his sheeny, sweaty face. His curved belly heaved and whimpered as he wept. I stared at him there, with the sun shining fuzzily through the golden, downy hairs of his shoulders and the blotted freckles that covered his exposed forearms, feeling more disgusted than ever. I felt that though necessary, an attempt at further consolation could make me vomit. His lips and nose were pink from slobbering woefully, and the noises coming from that weak willed throat jarred within him as they came out as overgrown baby gasps and phlegm riddled sobs. I'm going now. I'm going to take a shower. Looking at him pitifully, I realised that there was a sort of stomach turning pulchritude to making grown men cry. I turned the lock on the bathroom door and my heart pulsed nervously, as though he were a dangerous curiosity being secured into a cage in a premeditated attempt to contain him. A big, bald, polar bear in a wife beater vest, yellowing in patches underneath his armpits. I heard Phillip Seymour Hoffman's singular, long vowelled yowl. He started beating on the door once I'd undressed and put on the water. Holding myself, the vulnerability of my frame allowed his cry to pass through my bones and sit in the bottom of my stomach, echoing there unpleasantly.
