Fulton Miller sends me death stares whenever I look in his direction.
To be fair, I slept with his wife. Coincidentally, she died the next day. The events are, of course, coincidental, but unfortunate none the less.
I finished my homework, sipped my milkshake, and got out of the restaurant.
“Hey Spotty. You gutless clown.”
“Yes Fulton?”
“You dress like shit, you hog.”
“Fair enough, Fulton.” I said. “Well…I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Fulton’s wife was not attractive, she was just terminally ill. She sent me an e-card requesting my sexual presence. I thought it odd, being her and I had met only once—but I decided to go with the flow, being she had very little time left on this planet. I accepted and spent forty minutes inside of her.
“Thank you, Spotty.” She said. “I can die now.”
“Oh, you don’t have to die right now…” I said quickly.
Truth be told, Mrs. Miller should have been dead six months ago…but the human body is capable of some pretty remarkable things. She just kept living. Anyway, she died the next day.
Seeing Fulton afterwords was pretty uncomfortable—as I was the last man to see her alive—as well as the last man to have intercourse with her.
The last couple of hours we held each other and spoke about pet peeves. I told her how I hated having too many objects in my pockets, she told me her disdain for getting in and out of cars.
Overall, she was an alright woman.
I have a taxing job that I’d really rather not get into now, but it requires a heavy wind-down period following the end of my work day. This period involves heading into the Colonial Diner between 30th and Broadway and ordering a shot of gin accompanied by a Negra Modelo or whatever imported beer they have that night.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the type that drinks imported beers and chortles about climate change, electric cars, and how backpacking through Europe changed my life, I just find imported beers to be more ergonomic.
I work with computers, and as follows, have hand troubles. Some call it Carpal Tunnel syndrome, I’ve nicknamed it Handlexia. I work alongside Fulton Miller at a company where I build Internet personalities for clients. It’s like an online second life…but far different than the video game, Second Life.
Fulton was not able to build his wife’s profile legally—conflict of interest; he handed her off to me. A + B = C, she chose me to give her sex.
Her dying wish was to experience another man’s touch, so you would think Fulton wouldn’t have been so cheesed at me, since it was technically all her fault. I don’t condone his actions—those actions being my new black eye and missing canine.
I meant the tooth, not the dog. I own a canine, I call him Boxer, he’s a mutt.
Shortly after, I walked out of the Colonial and waited for the train. Fulton’s smarmy comments were fresh in my brain, so I made the decision that tonight would be the night that I went back in time.
