I wake up, puffy face stagger legs, then go to the kitchen where I make:
2 scrambled eggs
1 slice of wheat toast
I eat, then drink a tall glass of milk—a real glass, a sweaty glass, a glass like you’d find in a Mississippi bar. I swallow and click.
I go to the living room where I find:
Fucking on the couch. I sit on the chair and lace up my boots. I ask Tommy if he’s seen my tape measure, then notice he’s buried to the hilt. Sabrina wiggles, wet bottom clicking on his hairy thighs, and I try to gobble back my words, expecting the smartass reply. Too late.
“Use your dick.”
Sabrina begins to ride him violent sopping toilet plunger, fingernails tugging ripping the already frayed cushions behind Tommy’s head. Perhaps she is spurred by my presence, my gift, my set of brown eyes that dig dig dig into her soft hips. She knows I’ve seen her before, but not like this.
She stops. Clenches. Looks over her shoulder, smiles, then spits. Tommy screams as she claws his guts, eviscerating. I double-knot my boots, watch Tommy die. She slides off Tommy’s slather pole, popping like a cork.
“Finish me off,” she coos.
I shake my head, tuck my lunch pail under my arm and go out. I’m almost at the bus stop when I feel her on my back, her skin hot, breath hot, lava lava lava.
I fuck her against a fire hydrant while a man with a poodle watches, waits.