Him again

He huddled deep inside his flannel pyjamas, his flesh shrinking away from the chilly air.  Having decided to go to the cinema, he put down his cup of coffee and went into the bathroom to take a shower.  He turned on the light, its electric glow making the room feel warmer by some visual trick of the brain.  He stripped off and stepped into the shower cubicle, turning the taps and waiting for the stream of water to heat up enough to get underneath.  At first it seemed as if the water wasn’t going to get beyond a vague step above lukewarm, so he adjusted the taps back and forth until he found a temperature he was satisfied with.

After he was done washing himself he started to think about getting out, but continued standing there, letting the warmth wash over him.  He leaned with his arms pressed up against the opposite wall, the flow directed on the back of his neck, then streaming off down his body to pool around his feet.  The temperature suddenly changed becoming hotter, and a network of nerves jangled across his skin, singing their songs of pleasure.  He kept standing and kept standing and kept standing.  He thought about books, and about some research he had done a few years back, and about John Cage.  Eventually after all the world had been washed away he turned, shut off the water and stepped out into a fogged space.

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