These Delicate Creatures
One
Michael wakes in a tangled knot of sweat soaked sheets.
He feels intense discomfort and panic, and after a moment of mindless fumbling, he realises it’s because his phone alarm is blaring mere inches from his head. It picks it up and makes several attempts to swipe himself rid of it, fighting the searing light from his phone screen. When it is finally silenced, he sags back into his bed and sighs. That was the eleven AM alarm, which means he must have, somehow, turned off the nine thirty and ten AM ones. He hated that. Half the working day lost to fits of unsatisfying dreams and empty darkness.
He grasps towards the other side of the bed but finds it empty. Anna isn’t there. He picks up his phone and, almost by instinct, thumbs open Instagram. He scrolls numbly for a few minutes. Likes a picture of Sean, standing with his hands placed triumphantly on his hips on a mountain peak, as though he is Columbus laying claim to the Americas. Scrolls a little further. Sees another picture of an influencer, one of Anna’s contacts, sitting on a beach with dainty toes pushed into the sand. Melissa_Brooks was her name, though he’s sure that’s not her real name. The sea beyond her is an ethereal blue, and behind her a wooden jetty pushes out into a shimmering sunset. But he doesn’t look at any of that for long. The pink bikini seizes command of his attention for a few minutes. He angles the phone to follow the curve of her abdomen, the arc of her neck, the coy pout of her pink lips.
He glances at the comments. JX_101 has posted three fire emojis. Damien_14 has commented the word ‘unreal’, followed by an emoji of a smiley face salivating. Own_your_crimes_2 has written ‘check your Dm’s’ followed by three emojis of an aubergine. Michael sighs, rolls his eyes to himself, and continues to scroll.
Anna posted an hour ago. A high angled selfie of her standing on a street corner holding a Starbucks cup. Only a third of her face is visible behind the bucket hat and shades, but he admires her soft smile. She’s wearing the crop top he likes, the one that shows off just enough of her abdomen but isn’t too revealing. Her flared jeans are baggy, worn low. She’s always been trendy. He beams at her proudly for a few minutes. She makes it look effortless. She almost certainly had twice the followers that Melissa did, and she wasn’t trying nearly has hard. No need for nudity, no white T-Shirts without the bra. Simple, beautiful and stylish. He knew he’d chosen right by her. He almost shuddered to imagine what Melissa’s partner must feel after she’d uploaded any of her beach shots. Particularly last week’s photo of the tiny crop top that finished just underneath her areolas. The comment section had been like feeding time in the hyena pens.
Forty-Eight thousand likes too. Not bad. She would be beating herself up about that, no doubt. The paid partnership with Abercrombie and the shoot in the alley had stopped at one-hundred and thirty-six thousand, but it wasn’t an exact science. He’d told her that before. He thinks perhaps he’ll make a point of reminding her how well she’s doing later.
The comment section under her photo is much easier reading. Her best friend Clara has commented ‘Giiiiiiiirl’ with a heart eye emoji. Austin, a model colleague of hers from LA, has put a crown emoji, then three hearts. Gay, so that was fine. Another model he doesn’t recognise, female by the look of her profile, has written ‘I’m in London! Hmu!’ He scrolls down a little further. A man’s name leaps out at him. Doesn’t recognise the name, doesn’t think he’s commented before. Three minutes ago, he wrote; ‘Don’t tease bby girl.’
He stares at the message. He feels his jaw clench. He considers putting his phone down and getting on with his day, but he should message her. He knows he shouldn’t, but he finds himself clicking on the guy’s profile. Dean something. It doesn’t take much scrolling to figure out that Dean’s personality is the gym. He stops and ogles at a photo of Dean flexing in a mirror, buried behind a wall of dumbbells. The caption reads ‘hustle for the muscle, pains for those gains.’ He mimes vomiting in his mouth.
He flicks back to Anna’s profile and opens the messenger.
Morning gorgeous xx
Let me know how today goes x
He couldn’t remember exactly what she was doing today. He thinks she may have mentioned something about a meeting with her agent. He pulls himself out of bed and stands. He had been sure he’d tidied the room before bed, but the place looks like a shit tip now. He walks towards the desk or tries to. One of Anna’s bras binds his feet and sends him hurtling forward. He catches himself just in time, and curses under his breath. He picks up the bra and stuffs it in his cupboard, opening messenger again. She hasn’t read the first few messages, but he sends it anyway. He wouldn’t act annoyed. Perhaps she just needed a polite reminder to get her shit together.
Messy puppy. He types, adding a tongue out emoji to soften the blow. She reads it. He smiles broadly as he watches her typing.
What are you talking about? Comes the reply.
He takes the bra out of the cupboard and puts it back on the floor. Visual evidence is required, so he stages the crime scene as it was and snaps a picture.
Your wardrobe all over my floor! Nearly killed me!
She reads it. He watches her type again, but then she stops. He sighs and pockets the phone. Not in the mood, perhaps. He’ll remind her of it later when she’s not so busy with work.
He fixes himself a light breakfast. Coffee and a croissant. He’ll pop out for something bigger later, but he’s lost too much of the day already. After briefly pleasuring himself in the bathroom (he starts with the picture of Melissa_Brooks, but finishes with one of Anna), he showers and dresses quickly, running over his work notes from yesterday. He plays the brief from the paper out loud using the read-aloud function on Word while he brushes his teeth, and repeats the odd line verbally to get it in his head.
‘Ian Daley... thirty-nine... wannabe entrepreneur and property-owner from Acton, London. Charged with thirteen counts of coercive control, two of rape, one of false imprisonment and three counts of grievous bodily harm. Husband of Mariam Daley, key witness for the prosecution. Other witnesses... Venessa … fuck, P something. Pearson?’
He straps on his watch and checks his briefcase. He has a folder of his printed notes so far, but the last few days of the trial were intense. A lot of teary victims, the testimonies were lengthy, interrupted by rest breaks. He’s barely had a moment to piece them all together.
The tube is a pit of rabid animals. From the moment his feet step onto the platform, he is assaulted by the thick stench of body odour and piss. His arms are glued to his sides as he forces his way towards the platform edge, fighting back the thoughts in his mind of just how easy it would be to send the mesh of commuters surrounding him tumbling onto the tracks. The podcast in his ears is like a distant radio transmission too silenced by the rumble of the tunnels and the yells of the platform staff to be audible. It mutters something about modern women. Two male voices lament together at the downfall of the modern woman.
“I mean, look man. Things are tricky nowadays. Especially considering how lost men are feeling now. There’s not one single man out there that doesn’t feel… like lost with women. You know?”
“Totally, man. I’ve seen it on fucking… dating apps you know? You click on one profile and, jeez I mean. Women will show you anything. Like, isn’t anything sacred anymore?”
“Totally. Totally. Like, it sounds old fashioned, but self-respect is important. So important. Men really value that. They want to feel like something is theirs, right?”
​
Michael smiles sadly, and nods to himself as he pushes himself onto the train.