Henry's tired and emotional
He delivered a parcel to her house at six twenty five on January 10th. It was a wet Wednesday and raindrops clung to the end of his nose as he knelt down to place it on the doorstep. She was in but he didn’t feel up to knocking. Tim might be there, all muscular arms and consoling tones like an octopus that’s been taught empathy. He hated Tim. The day before, in Sainsbury’s, he’d bumped into him beside the organic vegetables and exchanged tight-lipped pleasantries. Tim was cordial, Tim was the perfect English gentleman, Tim was a total fucking shit, a snail sliding from beneath a plant pot to writhe all over his perfect English rose. Henry wasn’t bitter, he was livid.