by Terry Bain
I was just sitting here thinking, "You know what? You should go down and get yourself some ice cream." And then as I was thinking that I remembered that we don't have any goddamn ice cream because the kid ate the last of it before he went back to his mom's. So I get up and I go look at the bed, and there's Shalla all wrapped up in herself like it must be minus twenty in here but I'm hot as hell. She always gets this way that time of the month, and dammit if I don't want to spread her out all over the bed and to hell with that time of the month. But I don't. Oh, you know I don't. I just go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet looking at page three of the lingerie catalog. It's a damn shame that this doesn't do anything for me. I could wipe with page three and it would make me feel more than it does sitting here looking at it. Just looking, nothing else. Makes me want to sing like Frank Sinatra. Makes me sing all drunk and slovenly. Belting it out anyway. Too too hot.