The Post Office of Doctor Moreau (4/5) By Kenton Hall

(1/5), (2/5), (3/5), (4/5), (5/5). Part 1.

"Your ability to move so swiftly from sexual advances to enquiries about your son's well-being is only ONE of the reasons you don't have custody, Jonas. He's fine. I told him he was adopted. It seems to have made all the difference." "I'm going after Moreau, you know." There was a pause. Not a long one, not even a clearing of the throat, but it spoke volumes. Moreau had got us together. Moreau's downfall had led, however indirectly, to our own. She had to realise the significance.

"I'd say be careful, Jonas, but unfortunately, I don't give a rat's ass." "So, that shag..." Another pause. "You've got 10 minutes." ***

I arrived at Jerkwad's office 15 minutes later, sated and confused. Sleeping with an ex, in some ways, is the closest thing we have to truly virtual porn. You can't get completely lost in it, cause you're consciously aware that it's temporary - mutual masturbation of the highest order. You both know how to please the other physically, yet you signally fail to register that what made sex between the two of you fantastic when you were together was the uncertainty - where will we go from here? Will we last? Will this be my life from now on? Fear is the great aphrodisiac.

But with an ex, unless a reconciliation is on the cards, you just have this gaping chasm (no jokes, please) of loss, accompanied by a faint sense memory of fulfillment. It's heartbreaking. Someone usually ends up crying. Exactly like masturbation, then.

"Where the hell have you been?" said Jerkwad. I had collapsed on to one of the faux leather sofas that sat in the centre of his office. In our game, the likelihood that your visitors may be mortally wounded is high, and it's wise to have flat surfaces available. They were a deep red, for similar reasons. "Guess," I said. I disliked Jerkwad intensely, but we had known each other for a very long time. In male terms, time served is as good a measurement of friendship as anything else. "Sandy," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Don't start, Dennis." He hated being called Dennis. But until he found the cajones to go through with the hormone treatments, I refused to call him Denise. I'm not prejudiced - I just felt that if he wanted to be a woman he should go through with it. It's more than just a close shave and a predilection for Manolo Blahniks, you know.

You could tell that Jerkwad wanted to respond in kind, but we both knew that time was short, and this was one of those moments that went beyond personal rivalry. Like sports, or dirty jokes. "Moreau's back, Jonas. We don't know how, or why, but he is." I knew that much and told him so. "You've already have that particular dramatic reveal, Dennis. Just tell me where."

"The Rilkington Post Office." "WHAT?" "He's taken over a village post office." "Why the fuck would he do that?"

Continued...Next Page (5/5)

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