Fuzz
Michael Loveday

It was dress-down Friday.
The staff meeting. He didn’t come
on time, and was wearing
his favourite bow tie (magenta silk,
that gift from his wife). Nobody
clocked him at first – he’d slipped in
at the back, behind the crowd
standing cramped, unlistening,
swigging the free juice.
Dawes was up front, in mid-flow,
gushing through something
about the bottom-line. Then Dawes
faltered. Stuttering, he narrowed
his eyes on something
behind us. And I turned –
we all turned – to find
Roger, hands on hips, peering
forward, his hard pale body gleaming
at everyone. A grin curled
over his stupid mouth, he stood there
as some Scott of the Antarctic,
resolved to push on with a lunatic
adventure. And yes, there were gasps;
and someone dropped their
glass; and someone spluttered
“Roger, for God’s sake,
don’t be a douchebag”.
But all I could think about
was the warm dark fuzz
that gathered over his belly button –
always my favourite part –
everyone there owning it now.