I'm stepping out of the shower as another lightbulb blows. A man walks in. We shall call him Jurgen (although he sounds like he's from Surrey). He squints up at the changing room ceiling.
"Bloody dark in here," he grunts. He is, I have already realised, mostly arm.
He starts to get changed for the shower with the air of men with large muscles. He is very casually naked and manages to pretty much fill the changing room.
I'm trying to put on my socks, and am aware that his buttocks are very loud and extremely close... as though someone has tried to demonstrate dimensional transcendentalism by holding a large peach right in front of my eyes.
I'm reminded of an old BBC Gym Manager, who had either no sense of self or all too much. He'd stand in the shower with the curtain open, merrily soaping his bits like Nanette Newman recreating the potter's wheel scene from Ghost for Fairy Liquid.
Anyway, there's Jurgen, all bum and arm and grunting. There's the dim lighting. It's kind of sauna-ey. And then a repair man comes in to fix the lights. He's new. He's very Brazilian. He's like a fridge freezer with a tan. If the room felt small, it's now tiny.
Jurgen saunters a millimetre closer to him. "Mate, can you look at that bulb?" His smile says "You won't press charges."
The repair man smiles back, and explains that that's just what he's here to do. He then reaches up, and most of his t-shirt goes with him...
I'd like to say that the reason I leave immediately is because I'm in a loving, stable and committed relationship.
Actually it's because I'm mortified either of them will realise I'm listening to a CD walkman.
Sparkling Cyanide (1945)
1 year ago