She won’t let me love her. I can’t let her go. I put her in my trunk.
It’s midnight at the Kum N Go on I-40E. Orangish red halogen bulbs. Pall Malls slow burning holes in the dark fabric of a moonless night.
A middle aged, heavily mustached man in a cutoff jean shirt slumps inside surveying the parking lot with bug eyes through thick glasses.
Based on what I remember from chem 101 and an approximate body weight of 105 pounds I have less than 30 minutes before she wakes up. Fill the tank and switch subjects.
Love calculus.
Twenty years ago it was love geometry. Proximity and a few basic formulas revealed the contours of any shape. Times have changed. Old approaches no longer penetrate new hearts.
Or was it these new scrotum scrunching boxers from Hugo Boss? Testicles forced to retreat inside prostrate. Diminishing pheromone emissions. Hugo’s raw dogging her right now bent over my kitchen table. I’m numbering my t-level on one hand and unnutting my prostrate.
Focus. Twenty minutes to discover new math and rescue my future from the death grip of destiny.
Why did she have to wave at me? Why couldn’t she just have gone about her day and left me to continue inserting tidy formulas into LCD illuminated cells designed to measure future values of current expenditures?
The tiny glow on the horizon is NOT my friend. I should know this by now.
I can’t help it, my body animated by mosquito soul. A warrior class blood sucker who ascended to Valhalla in a bygone era. Elevated to human form in the present. Still irredeemably drawn to the light. ‘Hope Kills,’ will be my epitaph.
FOCUS. Fourteen minutes.
Untouchable peach pressed into well worn jeans. Equestrian mornings, motorcycle afternoons, siren song nightshift.
I drive a Subaru and my dog has fleas.
But my thicker than average shaft. I’ll show her the data. Convince her of the benefits of being a standard deviation to the right on the pussy stretching bell curve.
I’m hard just thinking about it. Cool breeze gently blowing the scent of precum into my wet nostrils.
FUCK! Six minutes, maybe less. A muffled moan from the trunk audible ahead of schedule.
THINK. What did the pastor say, love conquers all? Prepare to be conquered my love.
The tank has been full for fifteen minutes. Thick glasses behind the counter lost interest. Plus, I’m 94.5% sure he’s an ally. The time is now.
Hang up the pump. Walk around to the trunk. Open quickly. Use the element of surprise to prevent tire iron wielding demise.
Too late. The first strike folds thick shaft in two. Which, in turn, folds head to knees meeting strike two between my temples. There was no need for strike three, I was out cold.
***
Horn honks. Trunk opens. I climb out. Head throbbing. Broken dick bleeding out.
Passenger door swings open. Pink Cadillac parked on the dirt service road.
One armed toddler behind the wheel. Wordless command, ‘Get in.’
Take the wheel. Drive west together.
Blinding sunrise behind us.