Short (not so much fiction) for #Whimword: BOUNTY

I look up from Twitter briefly and he’s hovering in his slippers, which are grey and look like they’re made of carpet cut-offs. His ankles are disturbingly white above them.
“Want to hear a joke?” He says.
I rearrange the lower half of my face, but my eyes are back to skimming my timeline. I hit the button to start a new tweet; I’ve just thought of a great topical pun. Quick, practised finger-pads on a touch screen.
“Of course, Dad.”
The box-bungalow the council has shoved my parents into closes around us like a fist, my parents, one bored looking niece skimming through the TV channels, her foot restless across her knee, and me.
“There’s this bloke goes to the doctors, and he says…”
I’m checking my mentions. Refresh. Refresh. No likes. No retweets. My niece puts down the remote and adjusts her ponytail, expectant.
“he says every time I go for a wee, it smells like coconut…”
I can hear the clink of plates from the kitchen. I am flicking my eyes towards him dutifully, picking up my tea, avoiding the chip in the rim of the mug by swivelling my wrist slightly. Mum calls in to ask if I want another. I hasten to swallow, eyes widening.
“She’s hasn’t finished this one yet!” Dad calls, and clasps his hands behind his back for the punchline.
“And the doctor says…”
I refresh twitter again. Nothing. What’s the matter with everyone? That was a gem.
“He says, oh aye, it’s Bounty!”
I grin upwards at his white stubble, his glasses which are thicker than ever. My niece groans and picks up the remote again.
“Dad, that’s terrible.”
He grins back. He knows.

One Reply to “Short (not so much fiction) for #Whimword: BOUNTY”

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