Short Stories

Dominic, the figure in the bed, writhes a little, his sleep disturbed, his sweat burning. Violently, he turns, again to bury his enflamed mouth in the sopping pillow. The gentle slam of a door throws him once more as his brother, Benjamin, enters. Dominic is neither awake nor dormant and remains unaware of the presence.

I usually forget that those people have preferences, that they have refined tastes derived from the days when they had choices, when, just like the rest of us they were fodder for marketing executives and subject to the same cultural spins.