The Stevie Nicks Pervert is sitting on the couch by his phone. He knows that he has no new messages, but only in the way that he knows what eating a firework would be like; he has not checked. He reaches for his phone. The phone lights up. It is half past four in the morning. He has no new messages. He scrolls through his contacts. 'Delete', he selects. 'Delete all'. A little grey hourglass turns. On the last turn, he hits 'Cancel'. Hits it again and again. It is too late. 'Bitch', he says, thinking of his fingers, but meaning something else. He throws the phone at the carpet, stands up and kicks it at the skirting board. He is naked and the kicking makes him aware of his genitals. The phone hits the skirting board. A light in it flickers and stops. He feels all the light in him flicker and stop. He feels his ears inside the mask change colour from pink to grey. They are leathery and cool, like two couches in a clinic. He is becoming an elephant. He is suddenly less important than ivory. The Stevie Nicks Pervert lies down on his side at the phone. He presses where his right ear down, into the carpet. Behind his eyes he sees the word 'why'. It is the colour of a sex act and smells like the Finnish girl. It startles him, though he knows that it's his, like a scab that's came off in the bath and floats up between your legs.

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