the dishwasher before you leave,” Heather said to her husband,
Gerald, as she was busily nursing their twins.
“Sure thing, sweetie
pie. Love of my life,” he answered, tickling the tops of
her breasts. His two sons, tucked like footballs, one under
each of her arms, sucked noisily on her nipples. It was a
sweet spot, he recalled fondly, bending low to kiss each
boy on the head. “My little guzzlers,” he said, winking at
his wife and blowing her a kiss as he turned on his heel. “I’d
like to knock their noggins aside and get in there for a
swig myself,” he called to her, leaving quickly through the
kitchen door, dishwasher left unemptied. How could a man
remember a thing like that when he had just been witness
to two others of his gender gorging on his wife’s breasts? “Impossible!” He
Inside his briefcase
he had THE BOOK that had changed his life. He headed straight
for the coffee shop near where he worked. Slim chance his
wife would emerge from the condo, given the hungry young
twins she had in her care. But why chance it? Why ruin a
perfectly good, why a beautiful day—heavenly—with even a
whisper of doubt that he would be found out? No, better he
should trot a bit farther and remove himself from the danger
Gerald had taken
three personal days, on the advice of his therapist—so no
guilt here, no sireee, just pure freedom and joy. Time for
himself. The father, the provider, the one on whom all fiscal
responsibility lay. The one who had been robbed of his wife’s
ample bosoms by the tiny twins—but he was not resentful.
No! Quite to the contrary. He was doing what he needed to
do to feed himself. To provide that all-important sense of
freedom and zest for life. All around him he noticed exhausted,
downtrodden, sleep deprived, sex deprived, wife deprived
fathers, falling into the trough of despair. But not Gerald.
Oh no, not him. He would not fall into that trap. He patted
his very light briefcase. Not with this inside.
the coffee shop, finding his favorite window view corner
table available, he thought, Yes! This is a great day. He
sat down with his double-shot mocha, extra whip and pulled
out The Book: If Only One Of You Can Survive, It May As
Well Be You. “Thank you, thank you,” he said thinking
of his shrink, the author and purveyor of this incredible
book. What a lifesaver, he thought, opening to chapter two,
which was—wonder of wonders—entitled “Lifesaver,” replete
with a colorful picture of that old time treat: a book of
lifesavers. What every kid wanted as part of his (hopefully)
plentiful stack of stocking stuffers at Christmas.
a neat check mark next to the picture of an orange lifesaver,
the first in a colorful column of lifesaving tips. “Make
wise use of good natured forgetting when it comes to chores.” No
need to rush on to the next tip. No need to rush at all.
Gerald intended to savor the orange lifesaver, his mouth
puckering to suck, suck, suck.