Sunday morning. The incessant heat has both of us feeling lethargic. Dad went from the bed to the toilet, took a long piss (the last remains of last night's beer binge) and then straight to the sofa. Somewhere in his gut, the pizza he had for dinner is still turning into dough. He has scarcely said a word. The faint scent of sweat reaches me. It forms in the folds in his body. Between his neck and shoulders, between his tits and belly, and, of course, in his armpits and under his shorts. He hasn't had breakfast yet but I know it's better to wait for his appetite to wake up. Then I can start the process of feeding him again. I live for it, although he doesn't know it. I want him fatter for winter and even fatter and sweatier next summer.
















