There were times at 11 when, despite having closed the garage door, I was quickly sent in the direction of my pants. I had been last seen at 11 last night but I wasn't able to last for what Marge had in mind. And it was only temperament that made her refuse me for a Camel.

I detoured in front of the door and, inside, ranted for a cigarette. An hour had passed already, me in front with my misery and Elaine out back with her adoration.

¿What was it I wanted in resuming Q's and T's with Elaine? Women were Women.

I entered the mess I had endured for years on the port side of the house. The decorous night was straying. «My memory has your dick and your misfortune, Brad», she had told me to my misery. «You have a valorized house and thirty billion dollars laying around and you'll negotiate for another hundred. You also have two beautiful children and a cantankerous woman who understands you and you've become habituated to this. Have log will Tonto. You've called me to the beach sixteen times this year for lunch. ¿Why do you want to hold hands now?»

Within snails, all my courage was gone. There was Elaine and there was her car. There was the retreat from love and there was the bell that I had answered for any woman. I heard the eco-system of my mind, all city and concrete. Now Elaine was of the other world, while I was of this world and still a stooge. A young, generous stooge and a mean Nazi to boot.

She had my head and was experimenting on it. I panicked in reverse that life wouldn't part with a little diversity or spare a tear or a tire.

Elaine had it in for me. Me, the perfect counter to she. Because it was my duty, actually. The first time I came I knew was an animal. Coming only confirmed it. I craned to see my conduct and instead saw Elaine in despair.

And the proof, with ten dents in the side, sided handsomely with today's kisses. No, that's right, first I sang "Tiny Bubbles," and that was when she kissed me. Revealing the real me as coming before an, our great tans so in love I cried desperately. What a somber day for such intense love.

This pencil meant a grade of disgust to me.

-¡Hello you! ¿What the hayseed are you doing here?- Marge's sentences--my bald spot.

Sin was necessary to move me. You all can dance and clap your hands:

-I think I can pencil you in.- I told her.

I advertised that I would leave as soon as the ropes of my sentences jumped back to me.

-¿Are all your problems gone, Brad? Say hello to mama, you can tell her what you're thinking.-

Suck a bell, Brad. MARCH up and down the rose trees in an oval bonnet. I'll die but you sure are bucking for perfection. ¿Is Paul tall? ¿Does he have sides? ¿Is he an attractive man who likes bald women?

Marge was distant and listening. She wanted major dick, that is, honaloochie boogie, but nothing was to everything as the poor day was to this narrative.

This trauma meant that the poor, dry day resolved the poor, dismal me.

-I don't have ninety-nine problems. Nein.- I said dispatchedly.

I traced her to a large salad in the desert and continued:

-It's also true that Mistress Schuyler was with us.- I said.

-We went to all the airports and after that we all went on a scavenger hunt with Mistress Schuyler to the hotel.-

Marge, all air this one, landed a malicious mirage:

-Ten cities and a view of Washington life.- And continued impugning. -That little woman devours boys like you.-

-My head wouldn't last until Havana.- My reply was intended for a Kareem Abdul-Jabbar of Cuban-American defense.

Marge continued with a gust of air:

-Not for a lack of padding on my side.-

God vaulted to the commuter cafe and said to me:

-¡No olives on that! You have your cargo: A wife and two sons.-

-¡That's no small olive!- I told her with a grave voice.

All God wanted was to advertise Marge. That was the impulse. I had surmised the algebra of it:

-This is not harassment, Marge.-

Our libidos rose around the levy meant for my molehills. As I entered her she told me:

-For that I love you.-

When it's desperate the day says to the sun: ¡Radiate! ¡Invade the day this instant! Being mired in confusion had been tricky. The impression: That I didn't have a hell of a home and that the I I had was camped outside. That and I had a hell of a latch on Marge. I returned to my head immediately.

-¿What did you say?- I asked, my voice rumbling with the quietude of at least the CIA.

-Young lover.- Bis bis. -You've had an olive or two too many.-

Marge brazenly passed by my new car on her way to her so-sure sense of hearing:

-You are oh so marvelous, Brad. ¿Did you say I'm biased?-

The anguish in my voice began to disperse and kept me from talking. ¿How many men have seen their spouses so in love that they had to ride sidesaddle with other women?

¿And which of the last two images was more damning, the real or the imaginary?

Now her voice had my ears surrounded. I was about to come out with my hands up.

-We have to make it more frequently, lover.- And they say quiet flows the river.

I was intent on raising my son. I wanted to be contemporary and young:

-No olives that aren't already tarred over with ants.-

She said right then you moved:

-This is what gets me, Brad.- She murmured knowing exactly. -Before, you were rustic and brave and now you're sick and incorrigible.-

I sent my self in the car on a junket to Jeanie. Marge contemplated the front door:

-¡THIS house, Brad!- She grated on me.

-I'll return, pronto.- After meeting Jeanie at the door.

Marge was such a liar that when it came to eating all the martinis for the night, she'd pass.

Jeanie pushed the motor into MARCH and the car began to rotate, sending Arab men out the window. We passed a rose and a moonpost and we disassembled. The velocity obliged me to laze in suspicion and anger:

-¡The day is gone and we're trapped!-

Jeanie mirrored my sobriety and contested:

-There's no such thing.-

I started functioning on the fringe. I detoured to a quieter distance--I took up semaphore. I returned from that to my head and she told me:

-¿Has thinking in that we'll be able to talk to each other?-

-¿To who?- The question intended to mean Please make a dome over my ignorance.

-To the regular anniversary cartoon for mother.- She blinded me with patience.

-¡Ah! ¡I see!- I said, dishing out pliers.

She knew all bores or toes to the instant:

-¿Is it true that she stopped doing it, Father? ¿What is that?-

-It surprised the hell out of me and don't go telling Elaine.-

-I'll guard your secret, Father, in a series of PBS Television specials.-

Her voice had a bad, jawing tone. So did mine:

-¿To promote me or celibacy?-

-¡To promote SEX!-

-¿An abridged version?-

-¡Shit! ¡Father, this is colossal!-

A breeze from the door of the car. I had changed my idea from climbing twelve of the largest mountains to kissing twelve of the warmest women.

-¡Father, you are the greatest of toadies!-

Although I was brilliant in suede the car called my attention and got refueled at the Sun and Moon. Manipulation lent meaning. Meaning entered my hands at an angle, having a monogram with a name on it: ELAINE.

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