a ninth new story...'why?'

Bud smiled, it was more of a grimace.  His eyes were hard set, two dark flints. He raised his arms and pressed both palms of his hands against his temples, brought his hands down over the sides of his broad, square face.  He wished his great, square head was a fat sponge that he could wring free of a building reservoir of poisonous thoughts, or he needed an ice bath, or some kind of sexual release that would not end with feelings of inadequacy.

The telephone rang.

Bud bit his top lip, then reached for the receiver - the flex was tangled and he had to put his great, square head very close to the machine and squat on his haunches over the side-table.

'Yuh?', he answered, with effort.

'Bud?', said a woman's voice - it was Martha.

Bud winced, felt a needling pain in his right knee, taking the full weight of him.

'Yuh, Martha?', he said, left cheek bone about level with the sharp wooden edge of the side-table.

There was a brief pause, her end.

Then she said: 'Tomorrow ... Are we still on?'.

Bud repositioned himself so that he was kneeling awkwardly, the flex still tangled, now with his large, square chin just above the sharp wooden edge of the side-table. 'Gah, uh, yuh', he spluttered, 'I ... Are you?'

'What?', Martha said.

Bud felt sweat break on his back, felt an urge to scratch it, as well as on his flat, rectangular nose.  Martha was insistent, he just didn't know – they had fun, they didn't have fun, that was how their dates went.  Two divorcees with moods determined by the presence or otherwise of the past.

'Where - are – we going?', asked Bud, the veins in his thick-set neck beginning to throb.  Blood, rushing to his big, square head. Hot, red head.

'What?', Martha said again, then unable to conceal the hurt in her voice, 'you arranged it'. Trailed off.  

What did I arrange? Thought Bud, straining. He was trying to reach around his great shoulder blades to scratch his back, telephone receiver jammed between his big, square chin and the sharp edge of the side-table.

Martha sniffed audibly, 'you said we were going to the art show', her voice pained, 'the one on European Renaissance painting'.

Bud winced again, couldn't scratch the itch on his back.  Sweat had started issuing from his brow, sliding slowly down his flat, rectangular nose.  The lengths I go to please people, Bud thought angrily, largely at himself, why? Why?!

‘Why?’, said Martha suddenly.

And Bud realised he had spoken aloud.