Sissyphus was running late so had to wait longer. He read The New Yorker in the waiting room and felt a different New Yorker leaving his memory. In the dental chair, the set-up took forever, but Dr. Herc began drilling eventually. The assistant was unattractive, but her breasts stayed nearby. They got the filling out, studied the fracture and said he’d be fine without a cap; they could just refill it. While they did, he thought about Tyra. He texted her, craning his vision: “I’m sorry. See me tonite?”
His mouth was numb yet sore when he thanked them and left. His car needed gas. At the station, his pocket vibrated. Tyra’s text said: “NFW.” But she couldn’t mean it. He’d drop in on her with dinner. They needed to eat, and the fridge was always empty.
He got in the slow line at the supermarket. Paid with his second credit card. The highway traffic rivaled his commute. And the same songs were on the radio, the same commercials. It would take all night to get her back, if he was lucky. If he got the story right. His mojo working. If they drank enough but not too much. All night! He could almost cry to think about it–yet could almost feel her skin, smell her, taste her mouth. He missed the exit imagining her, circled back.
The Core Workout Challenge–dare he skip today’s crunches? Would it be crazy to do them on her sidewalk?
It was impossible, he decided, still driving. All of it. How had he fucked up again? Tyra! And how could it be dark already?
He needed sleep if he was to be any good at work tomorrow.