The Colour of His Hair

by David Rees

  ‘Male chauvinist louse!’

  ‘She thought of Mark as her brother-in-law,’ Ted said ‘Family.’

  ‘Now the link that joined them’s gone. The sheer, horrible, fucking chance of it!’

  ‘I’ll never forget when they came here for a drink. That first time: the look on Donald’s face. So much in love.’

  ‘I once told Mark, the night he nearly killed himself, that he ought to sell his flat. He was going on about it being a Donald museum. Or did he say mausoleum? “An everlasting reminder of the perfection and imperfection of what was,” he said.’

  ‘I suppose … that’s … a good epitaph for Donald.’

  ‘Make love to me.’ Jason’s voice was urgent. ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Death. Life. Crossing the road. Having been born.’

  ‘Frightened of me?’

  ‘No. Never. Never.’ He shifted and wriggled until Ted was lying on top of him. ‘I want you inside me. Prove that we both still exist!’

  Afterwards, he began to cry again. He sobbed himself asleep, Ted’s protecting arms round him.