Monday, September 30, 2002

Friday night, Saturday morning. Marcus is snoring. Really, really snoring. I shake him, prod him, roll him onto his side. Kick him, smother him, but still he snores. I try sleeping top-to-toe, to get away from the noise, but now I'm too annoyed to sleep.

"Oh, please! Shut up!" I yell.
In his sleep, he mumbles back: "Fuck off!"

So I do. I take a blanket and some pillows and make a bed in the kitchen, on the floor, under the table. It's hard and cold and uncomfortable, but I'm secure in the self-righteous knowledge that Marcus will wake up in the middle of the night, come looking for me, find me curled up under the table, and feel really, really guilty.

He doesn't.

At 7am, the phone rings. The phone on the kitchen table. The phone directly above my head. Rings. And rings. And r-r-r-r-rings. I decide to brave the snores again, and take my pillows back into the bedroom. Minutes later, the doorbell rings. I ignore it. Then there's a knock on the bedroom window. Firm, hard raps, the kind made by policemen. I pull back the curtain and see... two policemen.

"Marcus! The police are here!"
"The police! Outside! Marcus! Marcus! MARCUS!!"

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