Paul Did.
It had been many months since Paul had made love to his wife. He blamed it on his blood pressure. Far from being the type to discuss his sexual problems with a doctor, he suffered in silence and so did his wife; She blamed these problems on herself. Inversely proportionate to his advances towards his wife, his belt size had grown. Now, laying on his back in their well-worn mattress, the groove he molded into the spot he reliably slept in was the only place outside of the occasional full-length mirror where he could see his feet. He regarded his feet as close friends. They were certainly more numerable than his real-life friends.
Tonight his wife did not talk to him in bed, and Paul considered this a welcome change. Nights before, she had asked him why they never had sex anymore. It had resulted in a considerable amount of hemming and hawing from Paul. Deciding that almost anything would be better than accepting blame for their recent lack of physicality, he allowed the guilt to remain on his wife's shoulders. “Things just get to be so vanilla,” Paul had told her with an air of finality before forcing his eyes shut and feigning sleep. She asked what she could do before getting the message. She watched him bluffing before getting the hint. She still fell asleep before he did.
So when he got the chance to fall asleep on his own terms, catching up with those old friends that seemed so useless in his life, it almost made him smile. Almost.
When Paul woke up the next morning, he did not smile, but he was happier than usual. He was not on his way to his data entry job. He had an appointment with his doctor. After drinking his black, bitter coffee, he drove to a chain restaurant. He ordered a sandwich off of the breakfast menu.
Paul did not eat at the top chain restaurant. It had been his favorite once upon a time. A documentary had recently cast public attention on this top chain, leading to a healthier menu. Paul did not like that.
The greasy, dripping marriage of convenience and consumerism which he lewdly tongued away at contained several strips of bacon and two omellettes, both of which had been crammed with a yellow cheese. He did not know if it was cheddar or american cheese, but he did not care as it dripped lasciviously to his tertiary chin, where it congealed for a few minutes before being wiped away on his exit.
In the waiting room, he was told that his doctor would see him in a few minutes. Paul did not like being at the doctor's office this early in the morning. He did not like it because it was during another doctor's walk-in hours. Poor couples with their brat kids littered the waiting room; children with a cough or a rash, mothers with doting faces and a pair of parents who lovingly did a crossword puzzle together as they watched their son play with toys on the waiting room floor.
Paul wished he had a crossword puzzle. Paul also wished he enjoyed crossword puzzles. Paul changed his wish to a magazine. But not the magazines that were available. Paul wanted the new FHM, Maxim, GQ or Stuff. The doctor did not see him in a few minutes; it was well over two dozen minutes before he was seen, and it felt to Paul like longer because he had to sit there and watch happy people.
When he did finally enter the room where the doctor would examine him, Paul had worked himself into a foul mood. With no sandwich to consume nor GQ to distract him, he had turned the minor inconvenience of his wait into something worth complaining about. Its impotent, angry velocity amplified itself like a perpetual motion machine. But with it, his insecurity amplified; another thing he often combatted with magazines. “Maybe,” thought Paul, “he's putting it off because the news is bad and he hates the idea of breaking it to me.” The two emotions pulled on him until he was an absolute wreck.
So when Dr. Lynch, a thin man years younger than his current patient, entered, Paul was too insecure to be visibly angry. But he was very sweaty. The appointment went well. Oddly, Paul's heart was in fine working order and the medication he had been taking recently was bringing down his blood pressure. He should still be worried, though, because Paul's family had considerable history with heart problems.
All things considered, said the doctor, you're pretty fit, actually. The doctor then listened to Paul's heart and fingered Paul's jaw where it met his skull. “Oh,” said Dr. Lynch. “Your lymph nodes are swollen. At your age, that could be lymphoma.”
Paul felt the dull, insistant song of tinnitus pulling at his eardrums as the doctor continued. “I'd check it out in two weeks to see if it's gotten bigger, but keep an eye on it. Could be cause for concern.”
“I think you might be mistaken, doc... that's just a tense muscle.”
The ruminitive way Dr. Lynch replied made him sound as though his drawn-out words, pregnant in thought, were oozing consideration in the “m” syllable which opened each new sentence. “...mmmmThat's possible... mmmBut you should keep an eye on it. Try to keep from palpating the region and see if it's any bigger in two weeks.”
The ringing remained in his ears through the coming weeks, a dull humming reminder of his own body's potential rebellion. He heard it over the dinner he ate with his wife. He heard it over coffee. He heard it while being chewed out at his job. He heard it when he drove by the nations second-greatest fast food chains, robbed of hunger by the knot in his stomach. He heard it when he masturbated, hunched over the pixelated pornography that was becoming a greater part of his life each night before bed. He heard it loudest, though, when he feigned sleep as his wife asked him supremely embarrassing questions about his turn-ons. Those times, he wished it was so loud that he would never have to hear anything ever again.
And he also wished it was in him to make love to his wife again at times like these. At times he would sit and cry and imagine living a life where rather than fearing judgement with such all-consuming power, he could tell his wife that he was an exhibitionist and make love to her in an open field. Or something. But every night as he drove home he would place his hands on the sides of his throat and massage that slightly sore, tense area that ran from his jaw to the area where his neck became shoulder.
After a week, he could not have been more sure it was bigger. If Paul was anything, it was not courageous, and above all he could not make himself call his doctor back.
The days became blurs, colored gray in his own indifference, and one day his wife stopped asking about his kink. Paul hoped against hope that this would mark the beginning of the end; that from now on he could live out his finite days, the lump on his neck growing bigger and his wife no longer hoping for carnal pumpery. He had to buy a new belt for his pants. He was losing a lot of weight.
So, one day, he called up his wife during his lunch break and told her to meet him at the park, where they would have lunch. He told her they would have lunch, but that was mostly a lie. He didn't imagine he'd be very hungry after telling her that he had lymphoma.
They sat on the park bench avoiding eachothers' gaze, egg salad sandwiches on doughy whitebread clasped cold in their hands. Paul did not know where to begin, so as he gazed off into the distance and after straightening his tie, buried his head in his hands. “It's no secret that I've been acting different lately.”
“What is it?”
“And I'm just not sure how to say it... it's been weighing on me.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“Things just won't ... be the same again... after...” But something had caught Paul's eye before he could finish his sentence.
From where she sat, Paul's wife saw her husband stand up without explanation and run clumsily towards the jogging man. Her husband was out of breath by the time he'd caught up with the jogger. The thin, younger jogger responded to Paul with surprise and then familiarity before appearing to check the pulse of Paul's jugular and shaking his head, laughing in Paul's face.
Paul looked angry at first. Then he looked humiliated and then relieved before slowly and luxuriously walking back to his wife.
She was confused. “Who was that man? What did you want to tell me?” she said in a voice that guessed at divorce.
Paul smiled, grabbed his wife's pendulous breast right there out in the open and when she gasped, he slid his tongue in her mouth. He could almost taste her blush. “That was my doctor,” Paul said. “And I'd like to make love to you right out here in this field.”
Paul did.
Tonight his wife did not talk to him in bed, and Paul considered this a welcome change. Nights before, she had asked him why they never had sex anymore. It had resulted in a considerable amount of hemming and hawing from Paul. Deciding that almost anything would be better than accepting blame for their recent lack of physicality, he allowed the guilt to remain on his wife's shoulders. “Things just get to be so vanilla,” Paul had told her with an air of finality before forcing his eyes shut and feigning sleep. She asked what she could do before getting the message. She watched him bluffing before getting the hint. She still fell asleep before he did.
So when he got the chance to fall asleep on his own terms, catching up with those old friends that seemed so useless in his life, it almost made him smile. Almost.
When Paul woke up the next morning, he did not smile, but he was happier than usual. He was not on his way to his data entry job. He had an appointment with his doctor. After drinking his black, bitter coffee, he drove to a chain restaurant. He ordered a sandwich off of the breakfast menu.
Paul did not eat at the top chain restaurant. It had been his favorite once upon a time. A documentary had recently cast public attention on this top chain, leading to a healthier menu. Paul did not like that.
The greasy, dripping marriage of convenience and consumerism which he lewdly tongued away at contained several strips of bacon and two omellettes, both of which had been crammed with a yellow cheese. He did not know if it was cheddar or american cheese, but he did not care as it dripped lasciviously to his tertiary chin, where it congealed for a few minutes before being wiped away on his exit.
In the waiting room, he was told that his doctor would see him in a few minutes. Paul did not like being at the doctor's office this early in the morning. He did not like it because it was during another doctor's walk-in hours. Poor couples with their brat kids littered the waiting room; children with a cough or a rash, mothers with doting faces and a pair of parents who lovingly did a crossword puzzle together as they watched their son play with toys on the waiting room floor.
Paul wished he had a crossword puzzle. Paul also wished he enjoyed crossword puzzles. Paul changed his wish to a magazine. But not the magazines that were available. Paul wanted the new FHM, Maxim, GQ or Stuff. The doctor did not see him in a few minutes; it was well over two dozen minutes before he was seen, and it felt to Paul like longer because he had to sit there and watch happy people.
When he did finally enter the room where the doctor would examine him, Paul had worked himself into a foul mood. With no sandwich to consume nor GQ to distract him, he had turned the minor inconvenience of his wait into something worth complaining about. Its impotent, angry velocity amplified itself like a perpetual motion machine. But with it, his insecurity amplified; another thing he often combatted with magazines. “Maybe,” thought Paul, “he's putting it off because the news is bad and he hates the idea of breaking it to me.” The two emotions pulled on him until he was an absolute wreck.
So when Dr. Lynch, a thin man years younger than his current patient, entered, Paul was too insecure to be visibly angry. But he was very sweaty. The appointment went well. Oddly, Paul's heart was in fine working order and the medication he had been taking recently was bringing down his blood pressure. He should still be worried, though, because Paul's family had considerable history with heart problems.
All things considered, said the doctor, you're pretty fit, actually. The doctor then listened to Paul's heart and fingered Paul's jaw where it met his skull. “Oh,” said Dr. Lynch. “Your lymph nodes are swollen. At your age, that could be lymphoma.”
Paul felt the dull, insistant song of tinnitus pulling at his eardrums as the doctor continued. “I'd check it out in two weeks to see if it's gotten bigger, but keep an eye on it. Could be cause for concern.”
“I think you might be mistaken, doc... that's just a tense muscle.”
The ruminitive way Dr. Lynch replied made him sound as though his drawn-out words, pregnant in thought, were oozing consideration in the “m” syllable which opened each new sentence. “...mmmmThat's possible... mmmBut you should keep an eye on it. Try to keep from palpating the region and see if it's any bigger in two weeks.”
The ringing remained in his ears through the coming weeks, a dull humming reminder of his own body's potential rebellion. He heard it over the dinner he ate with his wife. He heard it over coffee. He heard it while being chewed out at his job. He heard it when he drove by the nations second-greatest fast food chains, robbed of hunger by the knot in his stomach. He heard it when he masturbated, hunched over the pixelated pornography that was becoming a greater part of his life each night before bed. He heard it loudest, though, when he feigned sleep as his wife asked him supremely embarrassing questions about his turn-ons. Those times, he wished it was so loud that he would never have to hear anything ever again.
And he also wished it was in him to make love to his wife again at times like these. At times he would sit and cry and imagine living a life where rather than fearing judgement with such all-consuming power, he could tell his wife that he was an exhibitionist and make love to her in an open field. Or something. But every night as he drove home he would place his hands on the sides of his throat and massage that slightly sore, tense area that ran from his jaw to the area where his neck became shoulder.
After a week, he could not have been more sure it was bigger. If Paul was anything, it was not courageous, and above all he could not make himself call his doctor back.
The days became blurs, colored gray in his own indifference, and one day his wife stopped asking about his kink. Paul hoped against hope that this would mark the beginning of the end; that from now on he could live out his finite days, the lump on his neck growing bigger and his wife no longer hoping for carnal pumpery. He had to buy a new belt for his pants. He was losing a lot of weight.
So, one day, he called up his wife during his lunch break and told her to meet him at the park, where they would have lunch. He told her they would have lunch, but that was mostly a lie. He didn't imagine he'd be very hungry after telling her that he had lymphoma.
They sat on the park bench avoiding eachothers' gaze, egg salad sandwiches on doughy whitebread clasped cold in their hands. Paul did not know where to begin, so as he gazed off into the distance and after straightening his tie, buried his head in his hands. “It's no secret that I've been acting different lately.”
“What is it?”
“And I'm just not sure how to say it... it's been weighing on me.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“Things just won't ... be the same again... after...” But something had caught Paul's eye before he could finish his sentence.
From where she sat, Paul's wife saw her husband stand up without explanation and run clumsily towards the jogging man. Her husband was out of breath by the time he'd caught up with the jogger. The thin, younger jogger responded to Paul with surprise and then familiarity before appearing to check the pulse of Paul's jugular and shaking his head, laughing in Paul's face.
Paul looked angry at first. Then he looked humiliated and then relieved before slowly and luxuriously walking back to his wife.
She was confused. “Who was that man? What did you want to tell me?” she said in a voice that guessed at divorce.
Paul smiled, grabbed his wife's pendulous breast right there out in the open and when she gasped, he slid his tongue in her mouth. He could almost taste her blush. “That was my doctor,” Paul said. “And I'd like to make love to you right out here in this field.”
Paul did.
posted by Jonny Turbo at 11:56 AM
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