Delete, Delete, Delete

For his part, W. has always considered himself a small man. Once, our friend X., a nightclub bouncer, picked W. up and twirled him round over his head like a cheerleader's baton. W. didn't mind. He always feels safe with X., he says. X. makes him feel secure and safe.

Do I make him feel safe?, I ask W. No, he says, just thin. W. says I'm getting fatter. You're not going to last long, he says. You haven't got many years left. Look at you. When I die, W. says, he's going to be my literary executor. Delete, delete, delete, that's what he's going to do.