down to the filter and tried to ignore the dull ache in my groin. While she was gone I heard Big Steve’s nails tapping on the stairs. He padded into the bedroom and jumped up on the bed with me. He stared into my eyes and then offered me his paw. I shook it.
“What are you looking at?”
He curled up next to me, facing Tara’s pillow.
The toilet flushed, and Tara came back to bed. She lay down next to me and took my hand.
“I tried, Adam. I really tried. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know, honey. Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight. Just get some sleep.”
We snuggled close together, with Big Steve sandwiched between us, and I whispered my love and patience and understanding until she fell asleep. I lay there in the darkness for a very long time, listening to both Tara and the dog snoring, and thought about things. I was frustrated, and though I’d done a good job of hiding it from my wife, I couldn’t hide it from myself. And I hated myself for feeling that way. It was selfish and insensitive—Neanderthal.
After a trip to the bathroom, I walked downstairs and went out into the backyard, hoping that the night air would tire me out. I turned off our motion-activated floodlight so that I wouldn’t wake up the neighbors, lit a cigarette, and then stared up at the stars. Someone had once told me that the stars were God’s eyes. I wondered if that was true, and then decided to find out. I stuck out my arm and extended my middle finger.
“Fuck you,” I whispered. “This is all your fault. You’ve got a kid of your own. Why did you have to take ours? Oh, that’s right—you let yours die on the cross.”
The stars stared back at me, cold and silent and faraway. I wasn’t struck down for my blasphemy, and hadn’t expected to be. A grim sense of satisfaction settled over me. I snuffed out my cigarette on the sidewalk and continued stargazing.
My thoughts were interrupted by Cliff’s voice. He stepped around the corner of his building, shirtless and barefoot, smoking a cigarette, his cell phone to his ear. Judging by the conversation he was talking to one of his many girlfriends. He jumped when he saw me, and I waved. He feigned a heart attack, waved back, and then went back around the corner.
For a moment I wondered what it would be like to have Cliff’s life, being a bachelor in my early forties and having sex with different women every weekend. Then I gazed up at our bedroom window and felt guilty for thinking like that.
I went back inside and fooled around on the computer. Eventually I surfed my way to a free porn site. After looking at the pictures I masturbated, careful not to make any noise. My orgasm was brief and unsatisfying, and when it was over I felt guiltier than ever. I wiped myself with some tissues and buried the evidence at the bottom of the trash can.
I started getting sleepy sometime after midnight, so I went back upstairs and crawled into bed. Big Steve wiggled over next to me, sighed, and then went back to sleep. I closed my eyes. As I drifted off, floating in that comfortable zone between awake and asleep, I imagined I heard the sound of a shepherd’s pipe on the breeze, outside on the street. It was faint and ghostly, and faded almost as suddenly as it had appeared.
I sat up and listened, but the music wasn’t repeated. I glanced at the clock, pushed Big Steve’s head off my pillow, and then lay back down. I figured I’d imagined it.
I closed my eyes again and went back to sleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful slumber. My dreams were filled with eerie music and crackling flames. Naked female figures pranced around a bonfire deep inside the forest to the sound of beating drums. The satyr cavorted with them, playing a tune on his shepherd’s pipe. In the dream I could even smell the smoke from the fire. On the outskirts of the ring a man had been nailed to a tree. His mouth was open, silently shrieking.
I woke up again, gasping and bathed in sweat, with the sounds of
“What are you looking at?”
He curled up next to me, facing Tara’s pillow.
The toilet flushed, and Tara came back to bed. She lay down next to me and took my hand.
“I tried, Adam. I really tried. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know, honey. Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight. Just get some sleep.”
We snuggled close together, with Big Steve sandwiched between us, and I whispered my love and patience and understanding until she fell asleep. I lay there in the darkness for a very long time, listening to both Tara and the dog snoring, and thought about things. I was frustrated, and though I’d done a good job of hiding it from my wife, I couldn’t hide it from myself. And I hated myself for feeling that way. It was selfish and insensitive—Neanderthal.
After a trip to the bathroom, I walked downstairs and went out into the backyard, hoping that the night air would tire me out. I turned off our motion-activated floodlight so that I wouldn’t wake up the neighbors, lit a cigarette, and then stared up at the stars. Someone had once told me that the stars were God’s eyes. I wondered if that was true, and then decided to find out. I stuck out my arm and extended my middle finger.
“Fuck you,” I whispered. “This is all your fault. You’ve got a kid of your own. Why did you have to take ours? Oh, that’s right—you let yours die on the cross.”
The stars stared back at me, cold and silent and faraway. I wasn’t struck down for my blasphemy, and hadn’t expected to be. A grim sense of satisfaction settled over me. I snuffed out my cigarette on the sidewalk and continued stargazing.
My thoughts were interrupted by Cliff’s voice. He stepped around the corner of his building, shirtless and barefoot, smoking a cigarette, his cell phone to his ear. Judging by the conversation he was talking to one of his many girlfriends. He jumped when he saw me, and I waved. He feigned a heart attack, waved back, and then went back around the corner.
For a moment I wondered what it would be like to have Cliff’s life, being a bachelor in my early forties and having sex with different women every weekend. Then I gazed up at our bedroom window and felt guilty for thinking like that.
I went back inside and fooled around on the computer. Eventually I surfed my way to a free porn site. After looking at the pictures I masturbated, careful not to make any noise. My orgasm was brief and unsatisfying, and when it was over I felt guiltier than ever. I wiped myself with some tissues and buried the evidence at the bottom of the trash can.
I started getting sleepy sometime after midnight, so I went back upstairs and crawled into bed. Big Steve wiggled over next to me, sighed, and then went back to sleep. I closed my eyes. As I drifted off, floating in that comfortable zone between awake and asleep, I imagined I heard the sound of a shepherd’s pipe on the breeze, outside on the street. It was faint and ghostly, and faded almost as suddenly as it had appeared.
I sat up and listened, but the music wasn’t repeated. I glanced at the clock, pushed Big Steve’s head off my pillow, and then lay back down. I figured I’d imagined it.
I closed my eyes again and went back to sleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful slumber. My dreams were filled with eerie music and crackling flames. Naked female figures pranced around a bonfire deep inside the forest to the sound of beating drums. The satyr cavorted with them, playing a tune on his shepherd’s pipe. In the dream I could even smell the smoke from the fire. On the outskirts of the ring a man had been nailed to a tree. His mouth was open, silently shrieking.
I woke up again, gasping and bathed in sweat, with the sounds of
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