Despite the long absence, Derek believes he’s been doing all the right things—going to the gym, skipping that third slice of pizza, not talking about Zach Benson nearly as much as he wants to. But Daphne, a cute little bug of a woman, didn’t seem to notice him even when he was splayed out on their bed after a shower in just a towel, looking all sexy at three-quarters chub.  

“It’s frustrating,” Derek said. “I mean, besides taking care of myself, I’ve made sacrifices. I agreed to her getting this Chihuahua—Roscoe. That little rat dog is always biting at my ankles and pissing in my shoes. I listen to her work stories about her Gen Z friend Hannah, who can’t see that Josh is just using her for her DLC and her Hulu password.  I built her a She Shed in the yard where she’s supposed to be pursuing a mindfulness practice and becoming her best self, but all she does in there is drink wine and watch Heather Cox Richardson on her iPad—if I had a nickel for every time Daphne mentioned Heather Cox Richardson, I could bend the moral fucking arc of history myself.”

Though frustrated, Derek has remained steadfast. On a recent Tuesday night, after a dinner of frozen Aldi meat lasagna and Caesar salad, he came up behind Daphne while she was at the kitchen sink and began to kiss her on the neck and touch her. With Roscoe pulling at his pant leg, she turned around and asked what he was doing? But before she could fully object, he hit her mark. Turns out, there was still some magic in his old fingers, and in no time, she was moaning like in the old days.  

In a blur, he had her in the back bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed with her pants off. He got down on his knees, looked up at her once, and then went to town. With Roscoe barking judgmentally at his feet, he dug deep, looking past her workday mustiness and unkemptness. Her body began to twitch and shake. She whispered his name over and over: Derek…Derek, prompting him to dig deeper still as pain seared through his burning knees, and oddly angled neck. When she was right there, lingering on the edge, writhing and quaking with pleasure, he made his final push, with a helicopter technique he learned from Hustler magazine when he was fourteen, she finally—finally—crossed over and exploded in unrepentant victory.

He pulled back, stood up, and began to undress, his face glistening. After drawing a several breaths, Daphne got to her feet, pulled up her underwear and pants, and asked what he was doing with an incredulous look on her face. She scooped up Roscoe and said, “Honey, could you finish up the dishes? There’s a new episode of Rooster on HBO tonight, and I’m a couple behind.” Without waiting for an answer, and Derek at full chub, she thanked him, then kissed him on the cheek and said, “Yikes, I need a shower.”

Derek went to the kitchen, finished off the pan of lasagna, and went to bed without doing the dishes.

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