Politics is Murder

He opened the letter while last night's post-red-wine decision was in the shower. He couldn't remember his name. Wasn't sure if he'd known it last night, in fact. Red always made him horny, and shower boy had been eager and, more importantly, right there in the pub. He couldn't be arsed with the apps that everyone was mad for these days. He preferred to fuck the old fashioned way: just him and someone else, without getting Silicon Valley involved.

He noted the letterhead. Here were the bastards, at last. He'd waited weeks for a reply. He skipped the first couple of paragraphs. These things usually contained more waffle than those tacky dessert places that were springing up everywhere, replacing all the decent bars. Scanning the page, he rubbed a throbbing temple. He must've drunk more than he'd realised.

The water stopped running and he glanced up the stairs. He hoped last-night's-pleasure-cum-this-morning's-pain wouldn't hang around much longer. It was bad enough when they stayed overnight, making excuses about lost keys or difficult housemates. He couldn't stand it when they took the piss and loitered the next morning, running up his water bill and using his good conditioner. This one had had the decency to give him a breakfast BJ in return for his reluctant hospitality, but it was time to get his space back.

"Suck off then fuck off", Deni used to say. He squeezed his eyes shut, his head searing in pain as the memory of Deni's laughing face burned itself into his eyelids. Deni was the only person he'd ever been able to tolerate in his flat for longer than it took him to empty his balls a couple of times. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd never been intimate - any more than a drunken New Year's snog the year they'd both got chlamydia in the same week and decided to stay in, anyway - or maybe it was just that Deni had always intuitively known when he was closing off and would leave him alone.

He looked back at the letter. This was all for Deni, after all. He needed to focus. They were taking his concerns seriously, bla fucking bla. He tried not to blink as another image of Deni's face threatened to surface. Bloodied and bruised, hardly recognisable. Those beautiful cheekbones shattered, the dark skin standing out in painful contrast to the clinical white of the table. He shook his head as if he could shake the picture loose, free himself from the pain.

The bedroom door slammed and he clenched the paper in his fist so as not to shout out. He'd give old BJ Bottoms ten minutes then chuck him into the street. One swallow did not a boyfriend make, after all.

Opening the letter again, he forced himself to focus on it. Fuck. He was actually being invited to discuss his petition. Something about community engagement, a new approach to petitions. Christ, why did they witter on so much? They were worse than those women who realised he fucked guys and went on a gay-best-friend recruitment spiel. Telling him how valued he was, how strong he must be to carry on after all he'd been through. Yeah, yeah, who knew it better than him? All he needed was the date and time, for fuck's sake. Where was it? Some nonsense about letting them know if he couldn't attend.

The bedroom door opened. He looked up, and was grateful to see a fully-dressed man. No puppy-eyed attempts to get one last ride out of him, thank God.

He looked back at the letter. There. He swallowed hard as he found it. It must be a sign. Deni's birthday.