I asked her how long I would have to wait like this, tied to the bed.
She said a while and left the room.
I stared at the ceiling, thinking about snow. I hadn’t seen snow in 600 years, give or take. When I was a kid it was my life. Michigan blizzards, ice storms, sledding, snowmobiling with Mom and Dad. That was all so long ago that it seemed like another person’s story.
Thinking about snow made the room seem chilly. I actually felt a draft on my testicles. Probably she turned on the air conditioning, or I was having a stroke. She rarely used the air conditioning. She enjoyed seeing me sweat.
I heard the whir of a blender or a food processor. Was she making me a margarita? Doubtful. I loved margaritas. I smelled garlic and guessed guacamole. The girl knew how to tease. My stomach rumbled.
My erection was long gone. I assured myself it would return.
But what if it didn’t? Sometimes when we finished having sex I would contemplate this possibility. Maybe this was the last time I would feel myself inside her, feel myself firming up like that, all of my blood rushing to that sweet spot. I loved boners. Even on other dudes they looked fine. For my money, boners were the purest physical manifestation of desire in the world, and who could argue with that?
When a person lost his desire, what did he have left?
TV. TV and death.
I wished she had turned on the TV before she walked out.
I fell asleep and dreamed about nacho chips. When I awoke she was sliding a nacho chip between my lips, back and forth, like a sexual act. The chip was salty and crunchy. Sure enough, she’d brought fresh guacamole.
She was still naked. I was still tied to the headboard.
Her face softened, became a cloud relieved of rain. The feeding commenced.