“Ok,” I say into my phone, “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll try.” I take another look down at the spot still poised to catch and splat me should I give in to compulsion, let my body take over, and fling myself out as far as I can.

“Good,” says Jolene, her voice so calm it sounds like she’s just been meditating or some shit. “Please try. If you’re gonna be living on borrowed, extra time . . . like, bonus life . . . then you might as well see what it’s like to get your shit together and plan for that big whore-binge with Figgles. That’s good, Uncle X!”

“Well,” I sigh, “it’s sure a lot of shit I’ll need to get together. I don’t know if I can, not really. But yeah, I’ll try.”

“I love you,” she says, but for some reason it doesn’t make me feel anything . . . like I’ve gone all cold inside, and I’m just a statue or robot about to get set or programmed a new way.

“I love you too,” I state, sounding very flat in my own ears.

The climb and walk back down and out the building is boring and not worth commenting on. But as I edge open my car door and slide in as if I’m slipping on an old pair of shoes, I get this funny sense I’m not really me anymore. I guess it’s because I planned on dying, and sent my suicide note and everything. And the me, the X, now adjusting his mirrors and starting the car is a person who that would-be-dead version never could have foreseen.

I dream about ass as I drive. No one’s in particular, just the idea of two big soft pillowy mounds of silky flesh I can be and stay as near as possible. It’s like a weird palate cleanser, or security blanket, or . . . well, happy thought . . . to hold onto as I make my way home. According to plan, this new me will be getting some ass at some stage. So, I guess that’s cool.

“Were you drinking?” Caylee calls as soon as I open the door, before she even sees me.

I don’t get flustered, or mad. And I don’t run upstairs. “Yeah,” I say. “I was.”

She’s clearly stunned by my calm honesty. “You can’t drink and drive!” I love the real emotion I hear messing with her tone.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You . . . you are?” 

I stroll to the couch and sit down next to her, not feeling as disgusted as I’d usually be by the sight of her dumpy, uncouth body, which looks like it should be on some reality show chain-smoking at a shitty table while screaming profanities at grown kids. 

Her eyes widen. I never sit with her like this.

“I’m sorry for everything,” I say.

She starts to cry, and I feel sort of terrible it’s come to this . . . that nice words from me are so rare it makes her literally weep. Even though she looks like she does, she doesn’t deserve a cold, distant sonofabitch for a husband. She’s a good person.

I reach out and circle my arms as far around her as they can go, and feel her head nestle into my chest. Yeah, I’m sure my face smirks or grimaces as I compare her with Jolene, or Dee, or Indian CVS girl, etc. But fuck it, Caylee is a person, and I’m just hugging her, so what-fucking-ever, right?

“You want to go upstairs?” she asks, her voice soft and low.

Shit. I definitely wasn’t planning for this.

But what choice do I have? If I’m gonna be good to her, I have to be willing to do our version of sex from time to time.

We enter my empty office bedroom, and I immediately close the thick shades to avoid seeing our reflection on the glass. I turn off the light, then my computer screen, and unplug the fan/heater (since it’s got this little red LED light that could potentially make things visible).

I slip out of my clothes, and hear her do the same.

We step toward each other and hug again.

I kiss the top of her head, and she pulls me close, wrapping her arms around the top of my back so tight I swear it’s about to pop in a really good way. 

She puts a hand on my chest just as I start to rub the soft, wiggly top of her arm. 

I don’t know if it’s my instant repulsion at the thought of her hand on me, or what, but we suddenly both freeze, though don’t separate at all. We’re now two stuck lifeforms, obviously both aware something funny is up. 

We burst out laughing, and don’t stop. 

I don’t know if she knows I can hardly stand what she’s doing. All I know is I don’t want to fuck it up. I have to get through this, and do my best. I can’t just be a shithead driven to drill strange ass in secret across the world. If I can’t be a halfway decent person (at the same time as I acknowledge and start to go after my true dark desires), what the fuck am I still living for?

I reach between Caylee’s legs, and am met with familiar mounds of rough curls. Instead of wrenching my hand away in an anxious panic, I feel the way her arms around me soften and she leans in.

I love how she tries so hard not to tense up and cry out as her pleasure builds. She fails, of course, and erupts like a mechanical geyser around my fingers as I explore and respond, getting just a little better at figuring out how to make her lose all control.

No, I can’t be fucked putting in the extra effort to push for gash-release, since I know it hurts her, and feels for me like trying to shove my dick between two stacked bricks. So, I let her kneel and do what she’s gotten better and better at through our years together.

Yes, I think of the hint of Jolene’s naked ass I glimpsed in my car, which is how I get myself to finish so as not to make Caylee have to keep going on and on.

We hug again, and it's odd how nothing urges me to pull away and get alone. 

Minutes later, I rise and step softly down the stairs and out the door.

It’s a warm, bright night, which I realize I wouldn’t have seen had I gone through with my plan earlier. I feel an interesting looseness as I step from the sidewalk to the street and cross, ready to turn right and make my way along to CVS to pick up some wine for Caylee and I to share as we watch stupid TV shows and fall asleep, probably both downstairs.

I wish I could say something like: Shit, I maybe this whole being alive thing ain't so bad.

But I know this tiny moment of something close to happiness is nothing compared to what I’ll have to make it through if I’m gonna have the life I really want.