Domestic masculinity

Shoes lined up against the wall, in pairs, equally spaced. A shirt on a chair, creased like a sunburnt man, sleeves still rolled up in indifference. Books on the coffee table, pushed to one side. Books on the dining table, magazines and mobilephones, wristwatch and wallet, and a handkerchief neatly folded with a toothpick laid upon it diagonally.

Pots and pans washed and stacked bottoms-up. A coffee mug languishing in the wash basin. Plates and cutlery lined up on display. Bottles and jars on shelves, half empty, half full. Packaged food, unopened, flaunting colourful brands. The refrigerator gurgling quietly in a corner. The gas stove still ticking from its recent exploits.

Painting on the wall, staring at the uncovered bed. The pillow vulnerable, like an open book. Ironed shirts in a multicoloured stack, next to the folded blanket, left there from a week before. The TV, dead to the world, balancing the remote on its head. A duffel bag at its feet, unzipped but unpacked, its contents hidden from view.

The toilet seat up. Soap, shaving foam and razor, untouched in their containers. Hand-towel draped on cool stainless steel, biding time.