little love story
by Joe Couture
Milley used to pray that someday John would stop cheating on her. For about thirty years, her prayers didn’t do her any good. However, this past year, John surrendered his late nights out for solitary nights at home, in front of the television. Milley could hardly believe it, but now that her prayers had seemingly come true, she wished he would go back out with those fifty-somethings that he non-ironically referred to as “the boys.” Often, after one of his nights out, he would return in the morning, smelling like beer, cheap vanilla, and occasionally piss. Whenever that happened, he would avoid Milley for several days. Not long after he started spending his nights at home, she began to long for that avoidance.
John’s best friend since high school, Frank, recently died of a heart attack. Prior to Frank’s death, John would spend the majority of his free time in Frank’s garage. Now, with Frank gone, the boys had taken to spending time in Winston’s garage. John never much cared for Winston. Winston is an electrical engineer, and John drives a milk truck for a living. After a few beers, Winston always starts talking about things John couldn’t give less of a shit about, like current world events and local politics. Worse still, Winston’s garage is nicer than John’s house. Some of the guys like drinking in a garage that makes their own dwelling look like a dump, but not John. On top of it all, that half-faggot Winston won’t allow the girls, Tracey and Darlene, to drink in his garage—something about the whole deal seems to make him, and probably his snooty wife, uncomfortable. Thus, John resolved to get drunk at home, in silent protest, as he ranted to Milley about what a pretentious prat Winston was.
Milley used to get off work from the fast-food restaurant where she spent nine hours standing at a drive-thru window, wearing a stupid-looking little visor that she felt embarrassed wearing twenty years earlier and handing out paper bags full of cheap food that she couldn’t afford, to people who she assumed felt bad for her. Then, she’d come home to have a shower, eat a cup of noodles, and watch her programs; meanwhile, John would spend his evenings busily consuming Oland’s and Viagra, and trying to lower Tracey’s head onto his lap as they sat drinking on the musty sofa in Frank’s garage, which the boys retrieved from a bountiful curbside pickup. Not now.
With John home all the time, Milly is forced to prepare a home-cooked meal each night upon her arrival. Although John can cook—far better than Milley can, as he often assures her—he’s always too tired after his workday concludes, considering he works a real job, unlike Milley. Furthermore, Milley hasn’t seen any of her programs since John’s spat with Winston began.
Despite the absence of Tracey, John seems to have no sex drive whatsoever. Milley starts to suspect that this is a result of her poor physical condition. Although John looks remarkably like a figure Milley saw on TV one time, featured in a painting called Portrait of a Fat Man, by some guy named Campin, Milley assures herself that John’s physique is a byproduct of his working as a professional driver, which he often reminds her is hell on his back and his nerves. Milley cannot begin to comprehend the stress that John must feel from working such a high-pressure job.
Milley decides to diet and make overt sexual advances on John. John doesn’t notice her weight loss, but he flies into a rage each time she attempts intimacy. John has to plan for that kind of thing, he can’t just go at will anymore—he’s a man, not a kid, goddamnit! Next, Milley decides to start drinking beer with John every night after she finishes the laundry and dishes. John likes this; he thinks that Milley is finally starting to lighten up. Unsure what else to do about their nothing of a sex life, Milley dyes her hair the same drugstore red that Tracy uses on her hair and starts wearing Calgon vanilla mist.
One evening, as they’re watching TV, Milley caresses her hand along the mass of limp flesh concealed beneath John’s grey sweatpants, and he has a moment of horrible clarity. As Milley’s hand strums his inadequacies and her unnaturally reddened poof of hair glides in descent down the ample, chip-crumbed slope of his belly, he realizes what is really happening. Milley, he is certain, is having an affair. There can be no other explanation for her newfound self-care and nymphomaniacal lusting (and at her age!), or for her recent attempt to mask the smell of French fries that has permanently permeated her skin. So, John does what any such man would do.
Photo of Joe Couture
BIO: Joe Couture’s work has appeared in Litbreak Magazine, CC&D, Down in the Dirt, Horror Sleaze Trash, Ice Blink Literary Magazine, and elsewhere.