It’s close to five when the girls and Candy leave.

Caylee goes into one of her programmed speeches on diet and shopping lists.

I suddenly remember the pdfs I’m supposed to send my boss, so I quickly pull out my phone and fire off the message, getting it in just under the wire of day’s end.

My attention returns to my prattling wife, who’s spouting robotically, “...and that’s why we only need to eat during a four-hour window each day. And…”

And I drift away again, my mind now outlining the major turning points and revelations of the day. I’m happy with myself for letting Dee and Jolene lounge about in our living room for most of the afternoon and not shifting or adjusting my position much to stare at curves, outlines, edges of clothes... Sure, I looked a little . . . curious each time one or the other might move. And, yeah, the phrase soft kitten licks all over did spark my imagination in intervals like a light breeze flapping a hanging flag every now and then. But it’s like everything we talked about at the GameStop made it so I could keep the weird-creepy-uncle factor to a minimum without really having to try. And that way I was able to focus more on the games and shit, and all of us laughing and joking around.

“...what about you?”

Fuck. Clearly Caylee’s just got done explaining something, and wants to know what I think.

I wince. “Uuuuuh…” But of course I’ve got nothing.

“The juicer,” she reminds me, her prompt meaning nothing.

“Juicer,” I repeat, I guess hoping for magic.

My work phone buzzes. It can wait. It’s after five now.

“You weren’t listening?” 

I peer over into Caylee’s doe-eyes, which rest almost permanently perched over the pink round frames of her glasses. “Uuuuuh…” I repeat, and screw my face into the vacant, challenged look I tend to bring to such situations.

She giggles.

“Sorry, I got distracted. You want to get a juicer?”

My phone buzzes again.

“Yes,” she over-announces as if I’m impaired. “There are so many greens we can have with Keto. I just thought that if we average out the time it takes to clean all the parts of a juicer versus preparing each ingredient for…”

And, again, my mind catapults outward, away, this time to a memory of the dual competing asses of the two receptionists at the gym this morning. I start to wonder if they’re names and profiles might be listed on the gym’s website. If so, maybe I can rustle up some pics or videos through one of my many fake social media accounts. That should be all the ingredients I need to rub one out later when I find an excuse to get some alone time up in my room.

But isn’t the whole point of this time of preparation that I’m not supposed to fap? Isn’t nofap, like, my new baseline to build from?

Well, I reason, yes, sex is a powerful motivating force. But couldn’t what we learned today be spun in such a way as to mean I shouldn’t get all tense and worked up about fucking (the way Jeeter and his dismal gang do)? Yeah, I need to be honest with myself about how much hot ass compels me. But didn’t I jump into this whole nofap thing a bit too quickly, not really considering the long term consequences of…?

“Are you ignoring me again?”

Fuck. 

“Yeah,” I answer sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“What’s so distracting? What are you even thinking about?” Her arms are folded now, giving her above-glasses glare appropriate weight.

So, what the fuck am I supposed to say? How many degrees back should I pull from the most honest answer possible? That most honest answer being: Fucking you is a damn chore, wife of mine. So I’m constantly perving over every girl I see. It’s so depressing to live that way I almost killed myself, but then your youngest niece offered to fuck me and convinced me to live a bit longer for the prospect of traveling the world to pay for gourmet ass overseas. And now that your older niece has admitted she wants her teacher to kitten-lick her privates, I’m sort of able to keep myself in check and not break my neck trying to scope her body from new angles I can then cycle through mentally next time I inevitably jerk off alone upstairs.

Instead, I say, “That guy, Candy, who was here . . . we’re trying to get him laid.”

“X!” she sirens softly, adding a light scowl to her judgmental, owl-esque expression. “Surely you could say you want to help the nice boy find a good lady friend. Trying to get him laid. Pft!”

We glower at each other in silence. 

I partly remember past fights when such moments would spiral out in competing accusations to prove and discredit moral superiority, back and forth. But now it’s like we’re too old to remember what’s supposed to come next in that old game. I think we both know it’s all bullshit anyway.

It’s already dark out.

My work phone buzzes a third time.

I should go get a blanket. At least if we’re going to attempt our piddly version of arguing, we might as well be warm and cozy.

We’ll probably turn on the TV soon, and find something funny. I can already picture Caylee laughing . . . her long, loud, and utterly unhindered shrieks of shrill joy grating endlessly against my beat-to-shit jeriatric mind and frame.

Shit, looking back into her steady, unflinching eyes, I see we’re seconds away from both cracking up and laughing hysterically at each other right now, and at how fucked up and stupid we can both be most of the time.

“Yes, we’ll find the lad a nice lady friend to court,” I begin. “And he can buy her diamonds, and give her little kisses…” My depraved mind conjures Dee once more, and I let the image take form and take hold. “...and be the best dang boyfriend in the dog-gone west. Ok? That good?”

We both smile.

“Good,” she replies.

I start to consider whether ordering three pizzas and eating two might be a good excuse for avoiding sex later should Caylee show signs she’s interested.

My phone buzzes a fourth time. I grab it, and let out a raspy, “Jesus!” at how bothersome whoever’s being.

Caylee reverse-nods . . . her way of asking what’s up.

“Oh fuck!” I blurt once I’ve flicked the phone on and am seeing the messages.

It’s literally the worst news I could get.