(Continued from Vodka and Melatonin-Part II)
“Are you up?” came her voice again-from far away.
“Huh? What…?” he asked confused.
He grabbed the hard seat of the chair feeling it beginning to shake beneath him. Or was it him shaking? He couldn’t be sure but was suddenly fearful of toppling over and have the clamps tear at his nut sack in the most gruesome way. He held onto the seat as if on a pitching ship.
“Hey!” she yelled shrilly as she banged the bed with her hip. “Are you not up yet?”
He started awake in his own bedroom, the morning sun bathing the room in a golden glow.
“I’m up for Chrissakes!”
“It’s about time!” his wife Pamela cried exasperated already. She was a blur of multi-colored spandex, nylon and grim determination. Jim rolled quickly onto his side away from her to try to hide his tent pole erection. Nothing pissed Pamela off more than him having a hard-on that she had nothing to do with.
“Remember”, she said “I have a 9 a.m. training with Silvio-but I want to get there early for the treadmill. Get a head start on my steps for the day. Then after the training I’m doing a weight set with Carla and will probably hang around for Michele’s Zumba class. I hate that shit but it will be a good cool-down and I haven’t seen Michele for awhile….”
Jim noted that this was the same word for word itinerary she had ticked off to him the night before. He knew she wasn’t informing him of anything-rather just stating her commitment for the universe to hear. He felt his hard-on deflating during her litany. The more she talked the quicker he deflated. He could almost hear the high pitched whine of air squeezing out of a pricked balloon.
“…so I won’t be home until noon which will give you enough time to get that goddam motorcycle out of my side of the garage…”
“Indian”, he mumbled into the pillow.
“1958 Indian”, he said for probably the hundredth time trying in vain to impress her with the bike’s vintage.
“Not. Giving. A. Shit. It’s a pile of pieces right now and I need to get my car inside. You have enough projects-finish that little car…”
“It’s a 72 Kharmen Gia Cabriolet.”
He felt her eyes boring into the back of his head. “You have till noon to get that piece of shit motorcycle gone.”
“Have a nice workout” he mumbled after she had strode off and couldn’t hear him. He lay still until he heard the front door slam. Then her car door. Then the motor started and he heard the crunch on the gravel drive. Not until it went silent and he knew she was out on the road did he throw back the covers and sit up.
Sighing, he stood and looked down to where his once proud cock had swung like a broad sword to see it hanging low in defeat-like a flag with no breeze.
“Coward” he grumbled at it.
He picked his phone off the nightstand and entered the unlock code-which he changed every two days or so just because it drove her nuts.
He tapped a quick text: “U up?”
It quickly bounced back: “Yep. Coffee.”
“Alone?” he tapped?
He scrolled down his quick dial list to where she was hidden near the bottom and tapped her name. She picked up on the second ring.
“Mornin’ Glory”, she said huskily.
“Charleston for a couple of days. Left yesterday.”
He was silent for a moment because he couldn’t remember if he’d said “Huh”-which was probably called for right then. Instead he said, “I dreamed about you last night?”
“Was it hot?” she asked.
“It was…complicated”, he said absently rubbing his balls where he still felt the dream-clamp.
“Complicated huh? You can’t manage complicated…”
“You were naked…”
“…and you had a little, flat ass.”
“Oh-it was a complete fantasy then!”
“Like I said, complicated.”
She laughed teasingly and he pulled his hand away from his pecker which, hearing her voice, seemed to awaken enough to lift its head and start sniffing around.
“Can you store the Indian for a while? Gotta get it out of here.”
“Told you she wasn’t going to let you keep it”
“Just for awhile.”
“Give me half an hour”, she said and hung up.
He put the phone back and stretched, digging his knuckles into the small of his back.