Tom Waits shaves his balls in front of a cracked hotel room mirror. His back aches, his lower back, his arse. Elton, his boyfriend, sits on their queens sized bed and watches the gay porn station.
"Tom, you're back wouldn't ache if you let me shave your balls."
"Tom Waits shaves his own balls,” grumbles Tom from the bathroom, his voice like an earthquake.
"I don't know if I can do this anymore. Watch you shave your own balls. I want to shave your balls Tom. I want to shave your beautiful balls. Hmmm, I can't do this anymore."
"Almost finished now,” replied Tom not listening. He hums a tune that reminds his boyfriend of a grave digging, not a fresh grave but an exhumation.
"I'm leaving you Tom, here in New Orleans. I'm leaving for good."
The click of the razor hitting a floor tile. Tom always shaves his balls with a bare razor. The fear is a muse.
"No Elton, you can't leave Tom."
"Tom needs your semen to lubricate his throat. Only yours."
"Oh Tom. You need to grow up first. Referring to yourself in the third person is passé. Super passé. I'm gone."
His boyfriend gently closes the hotel door behind him, leaving Tom struck and trouserless.
"A range of lovers line the bar. Never more."
Tom finishes shaving his balls.
“In case you return, my love.”