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“Yep.” I set the beer back down on the table. “Right before I called you.”
He laughs, as though it’s entertaining to him. “Dude, she’s using you.”
I never thought of it that way. Was she? She wants a divorce but not from my dick?
I text her again.Me: Are you using me for my dick?
Still no answer.
Most men would be all over that. Not me. I love my wife and my boys.
Me: I love you.
That’s romantic, right?
She still doesn’t reply. Maybe she’s sleeping already? It is like what, midnight?
Yeah, midnight. Fuck. I should be at home. Sleeping.
Me: Are you sleeping?
“Get her pregnant,” Brantley suggests, his eyes glued to the sports highlights on the television above our heads. “I had a girlfriend who once poked a hole in the condom. I caught her and she became anex-girlfriendbut maybe try that?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s dumb.”
But then I think, what if that’s what she wants?
Me: Do you want another baby? I can totally knock you up.
“It’s an idea. Not a good one, but an idea,” Brantley mumbles, glancing over his shoulder to watch a blonde walk by.
“This is serious, B. Ilikebeing married.”
It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “And that I willneverunderstand but, dude, come on.” He nudges my elbow with his. “You’re looking at her asking for a divorce as a bad thing.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s not?”
“No. It’s a good thing. It’ll be like college again. Different chick every night.”
“I didn’t like college for that reason.”
Me: I don’t want to be with anyone else. I love your pussy.
Was that too much?
I’m a man of repetition. I eat the same thing for breakfast every morning. Eggs, scrambled, and a slice of wheat toast. I have the same cup of coffee on the way to work. Americano. No cream. When I run, I run the same five-mile loop every time.
And you know, I like fucking the same woman. Mostly because I’m comfortable. I don’t have to worry about whether I’m going to find her fucking the neighbor and I know exactly what to do to make her come.
In turn, she knows what I like. There’s something to be said about that, and after a very traumatizing experience freshman year of college, I’m not open to experimenting anymore.
“What’s your plan then?” Brantley finally asks, probably wondering why it’s a Wednesday night and I’m still at the bar at midnight.
Just as I’m about to text Madison again, finally she responds to my messages.
Madison: Stop. Texting. Me. I’m trying to sleep.
I raise my beer. “Thinking of becoming an alcoholic. Maybe start an arrest record.” Then I shrug. “After that, I’m not sure I have a plan.”