When I lie on the sofa late at night, I wonder why my wife hasn’t left me yet. We haven’t had sex in four months, I haven’t worked in six. We haven’t been in the same bed since before Christmas. It’s March.
There’s a photo of her in a bikini on the coffee table and I’ve jerked off to it once or twice. Her skin is pale despite the sun, her hair is dark and her thighs look soft. She kissed me goodnight tonight before she went upstairs. She ushered the kids up with her. I hated that moment, knowing that everyone was going to sleep, wanted to cling to them to keep them awake with me. I didn’t say anything though, just nodded, smiled with my lips and let them go.
I switched off the TV and picked up the paper, looked over the classifieds. Two I’d circled in my own, erratic blue ink and one, I noticed, had been neatly circled in red.
Good man needed.
Must be reliable, trustworthy and intelligent. Must have own tools. Good man needed.
I set the paper down next to the picture and pulled a blanket over my legs. I thought I was going to fall asleep, but I didn’t. I just lay there on the couch and listened to the clock tick.
Robin White is a twenty-five-year-old writer from the UK. His work has previously appeared in DOGZPLOT and Pidgeonholes.