The Anatomy of An Aguamala

He comes flying through the cupboard door, nearly dismembering a finger in the process.  Collapsing with bent knees and flustered breath, he slumps against the door frame, his articulate spine thrusting the full weight of his fragile vertebrae to barricade us in.

It’s little more than a broom cupboard, really. Small and stone-paved, littered with the remains of parties-past: half forgotten, half empty flasks, cigarette ashes in match box graves. A lone mop stands at sloppy attention like a London call girl ready for her shift. Her sopping locks are riddled with pink glitter, like she’s eaten fish scales for dinner and forgotten to wipe the remains from his self-loathing lips.

“She’ll be the death of me!”

Tom’s referring to his girlfriend. A lanky, leering girl not terribly unlike the mop analogy I’ve just described. (It’s cruel of me to think that, but he’s caught me off guard.) His tie’s gone crooked, half-undone to his ribs and swept carelessly across one shoulder. A single corner of his shirt’s untucked and cheekily bunched around his middle, draped to reveal the curve of his hip. His lips are stained pink, either from fierce kisses or fearful sprinting I’m undecided.