In November by Dermot O’Sullivan
Eyes shut tight against the water; Andy MacAuliffe fumbled for the shower tap, found it, and twisted it shut. He opened his eyes and stood motionless as the water drained off his body in a shining tangle of shallow rivulets. When the din of tinkling had died down to a steady drip-drop-drip, he stepped out of the shower. He towelled himself dry and took a piss, savouring the long, satisfying gush and the frenetic bubbling as his jet…