It’s the usual bullshit Monday morning when she walks in. A bright eyed giggler, built on interwoven springs and tight jostling things. I’m cleaning my Smith & Wesson 686.
"Are you Hendricks?" she asks.
She has the kind of eyes that could deflower a nun from across a mall parking lot, and her words are moist with surprise.
"In the flesh," I wink. "Get you a drink, doll?"
"Bourbon," she nods. "Three fingers."
My sphincter reflexively tightens and my root chakra lets out a small shiver that causes me to break down into an almost imperceptible funk dance.
"Rocks?" I whimper.
"No, straight up." she says.
Downtown my penis finishes its gin gimlet, throws a twenty on the bar, and runs out the door to catch the L Train.
"I’m here because my husband has gone insane," she says.
My penis runs into the street and is flattened by a delivery truck.
"That’s a fucking shame," I mutter.
"What?" she says.
“Oh,” I say, “all men are the same.”
I hand her a drink. We smile and clink glasses. She takes a sip. “Do you love him?” I ask. She spits out her drink so violently it’s reduced to a subtle vapor and my thoughts get drunk in her hair.
“No,” she says, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp. “Not anymore.”
My penis picks itself up out of the gutter and dusts itself off. It sounds like we’ve got a job to do.