Hug o'clock

“Look at this, this is the best bit! I mean the worst bit,” Chris spluttered.

Rebecca glanced over. They were watching An Inconvenient Truth for the 176th time. That wasn’t an exaggeration either. She’d been keeping count. And it was also 175 times more than Chris had ever done to her what Caroline had enjoyed so much. No, mustn’t think about Caroline. Think about Chris.

“Look at the way the ice is cracking, its just, bloody, it just amazes me people don't seem to care,” he said.

Rebecca moved her hand further up Chris’s leg. She’d had it there for half an hour, inching ever northward, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Chris shook his head.

“You know what babes, I reckon we need a new plasma screen so I can really understand the full detail of how we as a species are destroying this planet. The 87 incher just isn’t up to it anymore,” he said.

Rebecca met his eyes.

“Why don’t you show me your 87 incher Chris? It’s been a while since we got anything entertaining out of that.”

She moved her hand directly onto his manhood but he brushed it away.

“Babes, not now, this is important stuff. We can really make a difference to the future of our world here. What about our children? What kind of world will we be leaving them?” he said.

Rebecca resisted the urge to inform Chris that their children wouldn’t care about the environmental degradation wrought on this fragile planet if he didn’t occasionally throw one up her, unprotected penetrative vaginal sex being the key component of human reproduction it was, but resisted.

Instead, she went over to island in their kitchen and poured herself an OJ. As soon, as she tasted it, she spat it out. It was rotten. Literally. Gone off.

“Chris, what’s wrong this OJ?” she asked.

“Oh, I meant to tell you babes, I chucked out that commercial crap full of preservatives you were buying from the supermarket. Instead, I just recycled some oranges I found in next door’s bin.”

One, two, three … four. Rebecca did the counting thing. It worked. But she didn’t how much longer it would be remain effective.

She’d sat down again just as the amazingly lifelike Al Gore began his long droning speech about the polar bears. Chris knew the speech off by heart. She had a sinking suspicion that if they were ever to get married, he’d want to work it into the vows somehow.

Then the phone rang. The call that would change their lives.

The ringtone was Yellow by Coldplay, the one Chris had selected for when Mr Pratt called. He’d chosen it because he said Coldplay were just like Mr Pratt, innovative, brave, not commercial.

“Good evening Sir,” Chris said promptly.

“Chris! Chris! Izza no Mr Pratt! Izza Jeanne here! You come over quick! Mr Pratt, hizza sick! I think he gonna die!”

Rebecca saw the colour drain from Chris’ face.

“What is it babes, is everything OK?”

A tear was already forming in Chris’ eyes.

“It’s Mr Pratt,” he said, “He’s sick. He might die.”

The silence enveloped them. Rebecca liked Mr Pratt. When they went to his house to serve dinner, sometimes the old man would let her swim in his Olympic size pool full of gold coins.

“You swim pretty girl,” he would say, “I justa sit here anda watch”

She put her hand on Chris’ shoulder.

He spoke:

“I think its hug o’clock babes.”

She held him tight.

“Why?” he asked, the grief in his voice only too heart-wrenchingly apparent.

“Why do bad things only ever happen to good people?”