Vi’s eyelids fluttered. Someone’s hand was on her arm, cool and hygienic.
Paul sat on the toilet and held his hand out the window, cigarette hanging from his fingers. Der Spiegel lay on his hairy thighs opened to an article about the European Union’s newest member states. And then he heard it.
The seagull peers in my direction, first out of one eye and then the other, turning his shrewd head from side to side.
Apparently my father, in his later years, developed a taste for being penetrated rectally by young boys.