I frown. “With… who?”
He blinks. “Downstairs Geoff.”
“Yes,” I say patiently. “You’ve said that twice now. Is that a neighbour? Someone in your building? A man you’ve fallen out with over bins?”
His ears start to go red. Crimson red. Tips first, then spreading like a warning signal.
“No,” he says. “I mean… my dick. I was trying to be polite.”
“Oh.”
He nods, relieved that at least that bit has landed.
“Right,” I say slowly. “And what exactly is the problem with your cock… yes, I said cock. No need to beat around the bush. I’ve seen it, I can call it a cock.”
A mighty fine cock actually!
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Rubs his hands together like they might produce words if encouraged.
“It’s just,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Not doing what it usually does.”
“Which is...”
“Responding,” he says. “Reliably.”
“To what?”
He sighs. “Situations.”
I tilt my head. “This is thrillingly vague.”
“I’m trying not to say the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The phrase,” he says, grimacing. “The medical one.”
“Geoff.”
He exhales. “It’s like… you expect a reaction and there isn’t one. Or there is one and then it disappears. Or it simply refuses to show up at all.”
I stare at him for a beat.
“Oh,” I say. “Erectile dysfunction.”
He winces like I’ve sworn loudly in church. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“Because it sounds permanent,” he says quickly. “And clinical. And like it comes with pamphlets.”
I nod. “Fair.”
“It’s temporary,” he adds at once. “At least I think it is. The doctor seemed to think so. Stress. Life. Midlife existential nonsense.”
He laughs then. A proper laugh this time: half disbelief, half hysteria.
“The irony! Downstairs Geoff goes on strike and the universe goes, ‘hang on, here is the result of his last spectacular appearance before retirement.’”
