A man lounges, ensconced between the pillows of a kitsche floral couch. He grunts to himself. Slurps his saliva in. My eyes stare ahead, grazing over his floating figure. His erratic gesticulations break the room’s silent concentration. Out dribbles the occasional inaudible sentence, followed by intermittent hysteric giggles. Everyone ignores his presence. His face is crevassed and leathered, callous and hairy. Hairs everywhere: nestled between the overwhelming folds of his skin, protruding from under his shirt, poking from his ears. He slumps behind his laptop and fingers the corners of his simpering mouth. Just beyond the couch, prim blonde women sit at a table.
William Dare 