Saturday, December 26, 2015


                                                            Sunday Ticket

He’s upset again.  His fantasy football is “sucking ass.”  Injuries have decimated his team.  Now his pals will get on the message board and scud him all week.  “Fuck.  Fuck!  FUCK!!   FUCK!!!”
She’d been away, the trip carefully planned, the doctor, too.  She knew just the pair she wanted, not too large, but lifelike.  The doctor nodded, said he could do that for her.  Afterward it hurt more than she expected but now the pain and swelling were gone.  Before coming home she’d also got her hair cut, telling the stylist “just give me something chic.”
Her husband spent $300 on something called Sunday Ticket which gives you all the games.  He flicks between channels incessantly, every fifteen seconds, hoping to catch every play, all the action.
Her mother warned her.  Said looks and money and even a sense of humor were secondary to attentiveness.
She takes off her new blouse and her skirt now, stands where she’d been standing, four feet to the side, as her husband shouted, “Fuck me!” 
When he doesn’t notice, she removes her bra, then her panties.  Even naked, the air feels heated and spicy, but not for the reasons she would have expected.   She keeps stock-still, a mannequin, holds her breath and counts backward from a hundred.  When she gets to zero she, collects her clothes and goes into the bedroom.
The next day she takes another trip, only this one is unplanned.  She drives and drives, noticing the trees along the freeway, their branches curled like forefingers, beckoning This way.

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