Dead man’s hands

“Scratch me”, they whisper as you stand on the bus and the urge grows stronger but the crowd grows bigger and the logistics more impossible, leaving you with this unbearable yearning. A thirst of the hand, and hunger of the crotch, a reunion looking less and less likely as the person opposite does not stop staring at you probably feasting on your unease and the dancing little unpleasantness your body is subjected to.

“Scratch me”, they order and this time you’re on the tube, and this time there’s no delaying it by trying to remember all the prime ministers in the correct order, this time your hand disobeys your brain barking orders and snatches free, clawed in anticipation and your crotch reals forward and yes people are so getting the wrong idea, and you scratch because you can not not scratch so you do the deed quickly, a swift angry rub you get little satisfaction from and you get off at the next stop, wishing your body more flexible so that you could flow out unnoticed like that spilled coffee that drips out when the automatic doors open, but you know it hasn’t been the case and there have been more stares, and once you’re at the top of the escalator and the cold air slaps your face you button your coat over your dress suit and while you’re at it you have a little discreet preventative scratch, just to tie you over until the next urge, and you find it super satisfactory and you feel your shoulders rolling back with the tiny victory.

“Scratch me” they plead and this time you feel your entire body tightening in insurrection because fuck surely now is not the time so you decide to ignore it, completely ignore it, even if it makes you walk a bit funny to the altar and stand awkwardly while you deliver your scattered eulogy and you look at the picture of the man you once worked with, a corporate picture of him giving a business lecture to his students, lots of them right here filling the chairs of the family and friends he didn’t have time for, and you realise how beautiful his long slender hands are and what an amazing scratching job they probably did, and you realise you’re the closest thing to a friend he had and maybe that’s why you manscaped for the occasion which obviously you regret now, and you realise that life is one endless string of regrets and you can’t tell whether you said that aloud or in your head because you’re distracted by that  guy sitting on the second row to the left squirming on his seat and you know he really needs to scratch his balls.