And he started to suck it, quickly, to drink it. It should have been warm. He knew that, and it disgusted him, the fact that he was already planting his disappointment, setting himself up to do it again-this-feeding a need, an addiction he suddenly had and accepted. He growled-he fuckin’ growled. He looked behind him-but he didn’t care. You’re such a messer. He chewed till it stopped being meat and spat the pulp into the bin. He rubbed his chin; he washed his hands. He looked at his shirt. It was clean. He ran the hot tap and watched the black drops turn red, pink, then nothing. He took the remaining fillet from the fridge and slid it off the plate, into the bin. He tied the plastic liner and brought it out to the wheelie bin.

— Where’s the dinner? Vera wanted to know, later.

— What?

— I bought fillet steaks for us. There.

She stood in front of the fridge’s open door.

— They were off, he said.

— They were not.

— They were, he said.-They were minging. I threw them out.

— They were perfect, she said.-Are they in here?

She was at the bin.

— The wheelie, he said.

He hadn’t expected this; he hadn’t thought ahead.

— I’m bringing them back, she said, as she moved to the back door.-The fucker.

She was talking about the butcher.

— Don’t, he said.

He didn’t stand up, he didn’t charge to block her. He stayed sitting at the table. He could feel his heart-his own meat-hopping, thumping.

— He’s always been grand, he said.-If we complain, it’ll-I don’t know-change the relationship. The customer-client thing.

He enjoyed listening to himself. He was winning.

— We can have the mince, he said.

— It was for the kids, she said.-Burgers.