There’s nothing on this earth that Mark would love more than to go to bed. It’s gone two in the morning, he’s drunk and he’s in his fucking forties. He’s just not built for this anymore.
But here he is, running the taps, waiting for the water to heat up for a shower. At 2:30AM.
The water heater in the building is nearly as unreliable as the other house. The other house at least has the excuse of being off the grid and custom-made. The apartment he’s paid out the arse for in Melbourne should really at the very least have consistent hot water, but ‘luxury’ low-rises just aren’t what they used to be.
Anyway. The wait is unfortunate; gives Mark time to have a drunken stare at himself in the mirror, which typically he avoids like the plague after a night like this.
He doesn’t look bad. His body’s still tight, tan, hairy in all the right places. Appropriately masculine. Even going grey in the temples, he’s not ashamed of any part of his body by any means—he’s got no reason to be.
But he’s going grey in other places, too. His pubes are edging into more-salt-than-pepper territory, and the parts of him that used to be all muscle are starting to soften. It’s his own fault. The building has a gym that had been one of the main draws when he bought the place, and he’s only used it once or twice in the year since he moved half of his clothes in.
He’s also noticing he’s got a bit of lube crusting in his bush. This isn’t a new experience. It’s a common one, even, with what he gets into on the regular.
For some reason, though, it sets him off.
He doesn’t go crazy over it; doesn’t start sweeping shit off the counters or smashing the mirrors like a panicked woman in a horror flick. He stays outwardly very calm. He scowls, and he starts to scratch at himself, watches the lube flake off onto the tile.
It takes him twenty minutes to be satisfied, once he’s gone to the kitchen for a sponge and then scrubbed the bathroom floor down. He knows he’s got it all. He’s just trying to be sure he’s not missed a spot. That’s all. A little bit of naked cleaning at 3AM never hurt anybody.
The bathroom’s filled with steam by then, anyway. Shower’s been ready for a long time and now Mark’s even sweatier than he started, beading at his grey, grey temples and running down the trembling line of his spine as he stalks back to the kitchen to throw the sponge in the sink.
He’s fine. He’s going to shower, and then he’s going to go to bed, and he’s not going to think about anything for seven-to-eight hours. He’s earned that much.
Of course, the shower goes cold within a minute of him climbing in.
