My mother has a photo of my step-father and me, underwear on our heads, pretending to be deep-sea divers hunting sharks.
As Kelly and I danced, painfully working our way through the ‘Electric Slide’, Ian was sprawled in my arms, dead to the world.
This time last year, Kelly, Ian and I were still recovering from the most tiring night of our lives.
…He doesn’t knock them off, or toss them over his shoulder. He carefully grasps them, lifts them into the air, and slams them to the carpet.
“…sometimes I wish he’d save a little something for me.”
…until Ian, the most repugnant experience I’d had was cleaning cat vomit from the livingroom carpet.
Misdirected right hooks are a thing of the past. Head-butts are still a significant danger.
His clothes were a magician’s scarf; an endless tangle of bits of clothing, until all that’s left is David Copperfield in his underwear.