Disgust is clawing a battered way from my backpack of ribs even me as i fix my smooth, rolling gaze at her round, proud face. She glares sunnily back at me, inflated by everything she has ever said or done in her life, and her pimples wink like little metropolises in the sunlight. It is a casual disgust that rises at any hour – even as my eyes float over her kneecaps – that seem to be floating in hard lumps of cold fat, and the vast expanse of her body, bag smug over the right shoulder. There is a hand trickling up the front of my throat and the fingers are gnawing steadily at every deep intestinal duct, milking bile into my eyes as the fibre of my spine rustles in a shared misery. She is splayed like a debauched roman cow, gorged on wine and roast, a huge ham which, upon ingestion, emits matted phlegm-coated betrayal – strange, as though i had mistaken her for another of the little people – the chronic tossers, dependants, that i abandon and have been thoroughly abandoned by.
It is a casual, cruel disgust that rises at any hour and at all things.