The Stevie Nicks Pervert has stopped brushing his teeth. He knows because his breath told him.
It's gotten inside the mask with him somehow, and is hovering next to his head, telling him that he hasn't brushed his teeth in weeks.
His breath is a bastard. He's sick of listening to it. It is a parasite, and he doesn't want anything else to do with it.
It should have just left with the Finnish girl.
She'd been moving things out quietly for weeks—shifting boxes at night, then shrugging about it in the morning. Every day his flat got lighter and lighter, until he almost passed out from altitude sickness.
On the last night all she had left was her toothbrush, and her Top Shop summer dress. He begged her to take his breath too.
'I've no use for it now', he said.
'But you've got plenty of room', she said, blinking.
For a second at the shut door, it seemed like she'd taken it, but then he sighed with relief and realised that it hadn't gone anywhere.
He's decided to stick his breath in a bin bag; give it to the charity shop. It is a useless thing and it belongs with all the other useless things.
His breath is a colour by numbers of a kitten, that someone's done entirely in black. His breath is Madonna's Sex book, with sunglasses drawn all over the tits. His breath is a carriage clock, with all the balls removed.