You tallied the women you’ve slept with on your fingers. Six, you say aloud. See? Not that many. But a few minutes later you realize you’ve forgotten to include me in your count. We’re like the odometer on an old car, you say. We’ve slept together so many times the numbers have rolled over to zero. Will you sleep with more people in your lifetime? Probably, but I hope you always return so I can be the last body you touch before everything ends.
The beautiful older woman with perfect skin and fake tits asks my husband if he wants to fuck. She’s high off blow and going through a divorce. He tells her he’s married. Me too, she says. I’m in another room, drunk and laughing with friends from middle school about nothing in particular. What does all of this mean? It doesn’t matter – drink to me as her hand touches his thigh.