The flabby man is always present. He doesn’t refuse to go, just sits by the window. Always lit from the side. We cannot get rid of him. We discuss his departure; ask for his comments. We hand him notes: ‘The door is beside you’. We offer him a suitcase. We are fast losing patience. We row about him at night, old wounds are opened. We yell. We push, jump on him, pull out his false front teeth, rub his face with excrement, still he remains, uncomplaining, a gappy grin. We carry him out, his flabbiness no weight, light as a bundle of sticks to a petrol doused fire. We watch through the smoke and flame as his eyes and lips pop. We come in and he's still there, only now wisps rise from his smudged and blistered head and his face is bubbled pulp, but he has found his teeth and gives us the same slight, now toothy grin.