I don’t know what to do anymore. Every day I come home to my beautiful house, and there on the beautiful pullout couch I stole from my rich, recently deceased cousin is my man husband, gently caressing his sweat-soaked Fortnite console. He is smelly and hot like a bear. He is wearing a latex human suit. On the computer screen, little children wearing latex suits just like my husband’s are dancing and firing their guns at the sky. I think of a quote by Dante: “There is no greater sorrow than to recall our times of joy in wretchedness.” There is no joy now. The Fortnite people yell on the screen, and I believe, just for a moment, that perhaps this is my own version of hell. The Romans had a theory about the demise of woman, and that demise was a man. All of a sudden my husband buckles to the floor like in the height of an orgasm that wasn’t even disappointing: “Victory Royale! Thirteen Kills! Bow down, LatexLoverScott69!”
Still, I prepare my husband a beautiful dinner with baked potatoes and ham. He does not come to the table. I sob. I shove the food off of the expensive dining room table I stole from my even richer, more recently deceased aunt. He does not look at me. “Where we dropping, bois?” He cackles at something Scott must’ve said on the microphone. Am I nothing but a game to him? An avatar of my own demise? I break our bottle of wine, brandishing the glass. “Floss like a boss,” I scream. I search on Amazon for my own latex suit.
I am reckless. I am alive. “Where are we dropping?” I dissolve.