Modern Love Story
Patrick Childress
Mallory is okay with Chinese takeout for the third Friday in a row. “You’re my General Tso,” she says with a little salute. I clear crumbs off the table with my forearm and we enjoy another outstanding meal from House of Hunan. After dinner, she cheers me on as my dark necromancer completes a new quest in Lords & Legends. “Was that a Level IV Wraith spell you just used?” she asks. Then we go to our room and make love. All this for just $89.99 a month.
* * *
In the teachers’ lounge, they ask me: don’t you want a real girlfriend? I have a real girlfriend. One that loves me for who I am, and I love her for that. Mallory was the first girl I ever kissed, and I think she’ll be the last.
Anyway, experience has shown that human females don’t line up to date forty-something middle school chemistry teachers. Not this one anyway. And I get it. Those girls in class aren’t as subtle as they think. I see them laughing at me. I know they call me Mr. Flabbott. The boys are no better. “Mr. Flabbott likes to whack it,” they say. That doesn’t even rhyme, you little SOBs.
Mallory doesn’t tell me to call the kids’ parents. She doesn’t say ‘ignore them.’ She just lets me be a little bit sad, cradles my head in her lap, and agrees that yes, they are in fact little SOBs.
Anyway, experience has shown that human females don’t line up to date forty-something middle school chemistry teachers. Not this one anyway. And I get it. Those girls in class aren’t as subtle as they think. I see them laughing at me. I know they call me Mr. Flabbott. The boys are no better. “Mr. Flabbott likes to whack it,” they say. That doesn’t even rhyme, you little SOBs.
Mallory doesn’t tell me to call the kids’ parents. She doesn’t say ‘ignore them.’ She just lets me be a little bit sad, cradles my head in her lap, and agrees that yes, they are in fact little SOBs.
* * *
First thing in the morning, I activate my goggles, and there she is. In stunning, ultra-high resolution. Her cute little nose just inches away from mine. As I tuck her hair behind her ear, the thousands of haptics in my glove let me feel every golden strand. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Good morning, babe,” she says through a yawn. “I was dreaming about you.” It’s a Penelope Cruz line she picked up from a movie we watched. I love it.
She rolls out of bed and rushes to the bathroom. The toilet lid clanks. Next, sounds of vomiting, a flush, then tooth-brushing emanate through my ear nodes. I sit up in bed.
Mal reappears in the doorway, hands on hips. “We need to talk.”
“Sweetheart. Are you okay?” I swing my feet off the bed and onto a pile of underwear and comic books.
She takes a deep breath and a long pause. “I’m pregnant.”
I hear her perfectly but respond: “Sorry? You said you’re pregnant?”
“That’s right.”
“But how are you, you’re not…”
“I’m not what?”
“I mean, how did this happen?”
“I was hoping you would be excited.” She sits on the corner of our bed, eyes on the floor.
“I am, it’s just…”
“You said you loved kids.”
“I do, but…”
“And that you wanted a family.”
“Yes, maybe one day, but…”
“You said you loved me.”
“I do. You know that. I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do here.”
“You are supposed to be this baby’s father.”
Even more unsure of myself than usual, I fall back on television clichés: “Is it mine?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Sorry. How much will this cost?”
“I’m not answering that either.”
“Sorry again. This is just, well, surprising? But of course. Of course, I’ll be the father. I mean I am the father. I love this baby, and I love you. What do I do next?”
“You just need to certify that you will be this baby’s father.”
“Right. I’ll certify that.”
“You need to say the words: ‘I certify that I will be this baby’s father.’ ”
I repeat back: “I certify that I will be this baby’s father.” There’s a ding in my ear and the haptics in my glove tap the back of my hand.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“Yes, babe. That’s it.” She scoots next to me and rests her head on my shoulder. “I love you so much. You are going to be a great dad.”
“Good morning, babe,” she says through a yawn. “I was dreaming about you.” It’s a Penelope Cruz line she picked up from a movie we watched. I love it.
She rolls out of bed and rushes to the bathroom. The toilet lid clanks. Next, sounds of vomiting, a flush, then tooth-brushing emanate through my ear nodes. I sit up in bed.
Mal reappears in the doorway, hands on hips. “We need to talk.”
“Sweetheart. Are you okay?” I swing my feet off the bed and onto a pile of underwear and comic books.
She takes a deep breath and a long pause. “I’m pregnant.”
I hear her perfectly but respond: “Sorry? You said you’re pregnant?”
“That’s right.”
“But how are you, you’re not…”
“I’m not what?”
“I mean, how did this happen?”
“I was hoping you would be excited.” She sits on the corner of our bed, eyes on the floor.
“I am, it’s just…”
“You said you loved kids.”
“I do, but…”
“And that you wanted a family.”
“Yes, maybe one day, but…”
“You said you loved me.”
“I do. You know that. I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do here.”
“You are supposed to be this baby’s father.”
Even more unsure of myself than usual, I fall back on television clichés: “Is it mine?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Sorry. How much will this cost?”
“I’m not answering that either.”
“Sorry again. This is just, well, surprising? But of course. Of course, I’ll be the father. I mean I am the father. I love this baby, and I love you. What do I do next?”
“You just need to certify that you will be this baby’s father.”
“Right. I’ll certify that.”
“You need to say the words: ‘I certify that I will be this baby’s father.’ ”
I repeat back: “I certify that I will be this baby’s father.” There’s a ding in my ear and the haptics in my glove tap the back of my hand.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“Yes, babe. That’s it.” She scoots next to me and rests her head on my shoulder. “I love you so much. You are going to be a great dad.”
* * *
One Year Later
Little Sven arrived three months ago, gave my life purpose and meaning in ways I never thought possible, and increased my monthly payment to $159.99. We named him Sven after my Lords & Legends avatar, which Mal worried would be confusing given how central Sven the Necromancer is in my life. Or was in my life. Turns out there’s not much time to game with a newborn in the apartment. Sven needs to be fed, or he needs his diaper changed, or he’s waking up five times a night. Mal handles much of this, but I can only ask so much of her, she says.
Tonight’s our regular family meeting. I nuke the leftover sesame chicken and join Mal at the table. I crack a cold Dr. Pepper while she breastfeeds little Sven.
“What’s on the agenda tonight, my love?” I say.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, how was your day?”
She glares down at Sven. “This one here cried all day. I think he might be colic. I want to take him to see someone.”
“Okay.”
“Won’t cost much.”
“Yes. Good idea.”
“Well?”
“Sorry. I certify that I will pay for you to see someone about Sven’s crying.” There’s a ding in my ear and a tap on the back of my hand. “I hope this helps. And I’m sorry you had a challenging day, sweetheart. What’s next?”
“I also think we need to hire a night nurse. I can’t take care of him all day and then get up with him all night.”
“Is that really necessary? I can take an extra overnight feeding if that helps.”
“Yes, babe, it’s necessary. This is what I need to be able to care for our child while protecting my mental health. You’re off at school all day, and I’m here, all alone. Just me and a baby that needs everything but gives nothing back. You don’t know what that’s like. I need help.”
“I’m not saying no, I just want to talk through our options here. Can’t we …”
Mal holds up a finger on her free hand. “Don’t say it. Don’t say ‘lower his volume’ or ‘mute him’ or something terrible like that. This is our son.”
“I never said that.”
“Because I stopped you.”
“I never would say that.”
“So you’ll certify the night nurse, then? You’ll do this for me and for little Svennie?”
“Well, sweetheart, if this will help you. If this will help us, I mean.”
“So?”
“I certify that I will pay for a night nurse.” Another ding, another tap on the hand.
“Thank you, babe. We need this.” Mal nestles Sven into a donut-shaped pillow, then adds: “And I need you.” She takes me by the hand and leads me to our bedroom. We make love.
Little Sven arrived three months ago, gave my life purpose and meaning in ways I never thought possible, and increased my monthly payment to $159.99. We named him Sven after my Lords & Legends avatar, which Mal worried would be confusing given how central Sven the Necromancer is in my life. Or was in my life. Turns out there’s not much time to game with a newborn in the apartment. Sven needs to be fed, or he needs his diaper changed, or he’s waking up five times a night. Mal handles much of this, but I can only ask so much of her, she says.
Tonight’s our regular family meeting. I nuke the leftover sesame chicken and join Mal at the table. I crack a cold Dr. Pepper while she breastfeeds little Sven.
“What’s on the agenda tonight, my love?” I say.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, how was your day?”
She glares down at Sven. “This one here cried all day. I think he might be colic. I want to take him to see someone.”
“Okay.”
“Won’t cost much.”
“Yes. Good idea.”
“Well?”
“Sorry. I certify that I will pay for you to see someone about Sven’s crying.” There’s a ding in my ear and a tap on the back of my hand. “I hope this helps. And I’m sorry you had a challenging day, sweetheart. What’s next?”
“I also think we need to hire a night nurse. I can’t take care of him all day and then get up with him all night.”
“Is that really necessary? I can take an extra overnight feeding if that helps.”
“Yes, babe, it’s necessary. This is what I need to be able to care for our child while protecting my mental health. You’re off at school all day, and I’m here, all alone. Just me and a baby that needs everything but gives nothing back. You don’t know what that’s like. I need help.”
“I’m not saying no, I just want to talk through our options here. Can’t we …”
Mal holds up a finger on her free hand. “Don’t say it. Don’t say ‘lower his volume’ or ‘mute him’ or something terrible like that. This is our son.”
“I never said that.”
“Because I stopped you.”
“I never would say that.”
“So you’ll certify the night nurse, then? You’ll do this for me and for little Svennie?”
“Well, sweetheart, if this will help you. If this will help us, I mean.”
“So?”
“I certify that I will pay for a night nurse.” Another ding, another tap on the hand.
“Thank you, babe. We need this.” Mal nestles Sven into a donut-shaped pillow, then adds: “And I need you.” She takes me by the hand and leads me to our bedroom. We make love.
* * *
Six Months Later
Sven and I sit on the living room floor amidst a sea of plastic farm animals. He picks up a purple goat, sucks on its head, sets it down. He repeats the process with a pink duck, then a tie-dyed cow. “Nice job, little buddy. That is a cow.”
I extend my pinky and it’s greeted by tiny, grasping fingers. I kiss wisps of hair taking root on his little grapefruit of a head. That smell. Dove soap and honey. Worth every cent of the olfactory upgrade.
Sven gazes up at me with caramel eyes that match my own. Mercifully for him, the resemblance ends there. His nose, chin, and hair are all Mallory. He’s a lucky kid: the face of young Anakin Skywalker, two loving parents, not a care in the world.
It took a few months, but my connection to Sven is undeniable. It’s all-consuming. I haven’t played Lords & Legends in weeks. I’ll choose Sven the toy-sucking angel-baby over Sven the spell-casting necromancer any day of the week. This boy right here—the one with a Sarlacc grip on my finger—he is real magic.
Mal joins us on the rug. “My little farmers,” she says, shaking the tie-dyed cow to Sven’s delight. “It’s time for this cowpoke to go to bed.” She motions toward the crib with her head.
“Who’s putting him down?” I ask.
“My turn tonight. Give daddy a kiss, little buddy.” We rub noses, Sven giggles.
All’s quiet on the home front now. My first impulse is to log on to L&L, but I crawl up onto the couch instead. It’s true what people say: kids will wear you out. I spread the blanket Mom crocheted for my birthday across my legs and balance what’s left of a bag of Funyuns on my chest. I unwind with an old Star Trek episode until Mal returns twenty minutes later.
“Room under there for me?”
I hit ‘pause,’ motion her over, and she joins me under Mom’s blanket.
“I didn’t mention this before, but I put up a photo of us on my desk at school. A little family portrait.”
“That’s so sweet, babe. When did you do that? Did you get a lot of questions?”
“A few weeks ago. The kids were mostly just surprised.”
“Why surprised?”
“I guess they always thought of me one way, but now they see me with my family, and they think of me a different way.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Definitely. It’s like they see me as an adult now. Like, more legitimate. I haven’t heard ‘Mr. Flabbott’ in weeks. It’s not just them though. I feel more legitimate these days. More in control. It took me 45 years, but I finally feel like a grown man.”
“That’s wonderful, babe.”
“You are wonderful. You changed my life, Mal. You and the little guy.”
“We’re so lucky to have you, babe.”
I rest a gloved hand on her hip, and we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
Sven and I sit on the living room floor amidst a sea of plastic farm animals. He picks up a purple goat, sucks on its head, sets it down. He repeats the process with a pink duck, then a tie-dyed cow. “Nice job, little buddy. That is a cow.”
I extend my pinky and it’s greeted by tiny, grasping fingers. I kiss wisps of hair taking root on his little grapefruit of a head. That smell. Dove soap and honey. Worth every cent of the olfactory upgrade.
Sven gazes up at me with caramel eyes that match my own. Mercifully for him, the resemblance ends there. His nose, chin, and hair are all Mallory. He’s a lucky kid: the face of young Anakin Skywalker, two loving parents, not a care in the world.
It took a few months, but my connection to Sven is undeniable. It’s all-consuming. I haven’t played Lords & Legends in weeks. I’ll choose Sven the toy-sucking angel-baby over Sven the spell-casting necromancer any day of the week. This boy right here—the one with a Sarlacc grip on my finger—he is real magic.
Mal joins us on the rug. “My little farmers,” she says, shaking the tie-dyed cow to Sven’s delight. “It’s time for this cowpoke to go to bed.” She motions toward the crib with her head.
“Who’s putting him down?” I ask.
“My turn tonight. Give daddy a kiss, little buddy.” We rub noses, Sven giggles.
All’s quiet on the home front now. My first impulse is to log on to L&L, but I crawl up onto the couch instead. It’s true what people say: kids will wear you out. I spread the blanket Mom crocheted for my birthday across my legs and balance what’s left of a bag of Funyuns on my chest. I unwind with an old Star Trek episode until Mal returns twenty minutes later.
“Room under there for me?”
I hit ‘pause,’ motion her over, and she joins me under Mom’s blanket.
“I didn’t mention this before, but I put up a photo of us on my desk at school. A little family portrait.”
“That’s so sweet, babe. When did you do that? Did you get a lot of questions?”
“A few weeks ago. The kids were mostly just surprised.”
“Why surprised?”
“I guess they always thought of me one way, but now they see me with my family, and they think of me a different way.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Definitely. It’s like they see me as an adult now. Like, more legitimate. I haven’t heard ‘Mr. Flabbott’ in weeks. It’s not just them though. I feel more legitimate these days. More in control. It took me 45 years, but I finally feel like a grown man.”
“That’s wonderful, babe.”
“You are wonderful. You changed my life, Mal. You and the little guy.”
“We’re so lucky to have you, babe.”
I rest a gloved hand on her hip, and we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
* * *
One Year Later
Sven’s finally asleep. That kid’s energy is off the charts—crashing through the apartment knocking down all my action figures, devouring every puffy snack he can get his sticky little fingers on. Watching him navigate the world is exhausting. It’s also my greatest joy.
On family meeting night we order pizza from Emilio’s. It’s become a little tradition of ours. I lift two slices of Hawaiian onto a paper plate and join Mal at the table. I add squirts of ranch and sriracha before taking my first bite.
“What’s on the agenda tonight, sweetheart? I mean, how was your day?”
“We need to talk.”
I drop my slice, wipe the pizza sauce from my goatee. “I don’t like the sound of that. Is something wrong?”
“I’ve been having some doubts lately. Some insecurity, I guess.”
Mal has made comments like this before, but she seems especially somber tonight. “I’m so sorry to hear that, sweetheart. What kind of doubts? How can I help?”
“Doubts about the future. Doubts about our future.”
“My gosh. Where is this all coming from?”
“I only exist for you.”
We stare at each other. I break the silence with: “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t follow.”
“What if you come home from work tomorrow and decide to play L&L instead of putting on your goggles and being a dad. Then the day after that, what if you make the same choice? Sven and I, we would just, just disappear? Like, forever?”
“I would never do that, sweetheart. You two are my whole life. I love you more than anything.”
“But what if that changes? I guess what I want to say is, I need a commitment from you. Some security. Can you understand that?”
I can’t understand that, not really. But I respond: “Of course I understand that, sweetheart. I’m just not sure what you are asking for here.”
Mal takes a breath then takes my hand. “I want to get married.”
My throat’s as dry as Tatooine. I take a slug of Dr. Pepper and repeat back: “You want to get married?”
She nods. “That’s what I said.”
I drag soggy palms across my sweatpants. “Sorry, I’ve just never considered…I mean, I love you. And I plan to be with you forever.”
“You plan to be with me forever.”
“I mean I will be with you forever.”
“Then marry me.” She leans forward and looks into my eyes. “Make me your wife.”
“But, well, how would I do that exactly?”
“You certify it, just like other upgrades.”
“How much…”
Mal lifts her hand to stop me. “Don’t ask that. Please babe, please just don’t. Marriage is how you can prove your commitment to me. You are committed to me, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am.”
“And you want me and little Sven to feel secure, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then I ask you, Julian Percival Abbott, will you marry me?” Her eyes drill into me, expectant, desperate. She needs an answer now.
“Of course I will.”
We embrace. I run my gloved hand over her back as she cries.
“You have to certify it,” she whispers in my ear.
I say the words: “I certify that I will marry you, Mallory.”
White text pops into my field of vision. This is new.
“What is this writing?” I ask, ending the hug.
“The standard terms and conditions. Basic marriage stuff. Scroll to the bottom and certify. I’m so happy, babe. I can’t wait to tell Sven.”
I scroll through columns of dense text. “There’s a lot here.”
“All standard stuff. You just certify at the bottom.”
I reach the end and select ‘certify.’ A familiar ding and a tap on the hand. That’s followed by a few seconds of Mendelssohn’s wedding march. A nice touch.
“Mrs. Mallory Abbott,” I say, smiling at my wife.
“My handsome husband,” she replies.
After dinner, we celebrate by watching the new episode of Star Trek: Spawn of Spock. Our favorite spinoff yet. I’m nodding off to sleep, but Mal wakes me up and leads me into our bedroom. We make love.
Sven’s finally asleep. That kid’s energy is off the charts—crashing through the apartment knocking down all my action figures, devouring every puffy snack he can get his sticky little fingers on. Watching him navigate the world is exhausting. It’s also my greatest joy.
On family meeting night we order pizza from Emilio’s. It’s become a little tradition of ours. I lift two slices of Hawaiian onto a paper plate and join Mal at the table. I add squirts of ranch and sriracha before taking my first bite.
“What’s on the agenda tonight, sweetheart? I mean, how was your day?”
“We need to talk.”
I drop my slice, wipe the pizza sauce from my goatee. “I don’t like the sound of that. Is something wrong?”
“I’ve been having some doubts lately. Some insecurity, I guess.”
Mal has made comments like this before, but she seems especially somber tonight. “I’m so sorry to hear that, sweetheart. What kind of doubts? How can I help?”
“Doubts about the future. Doubts about our future.”
“My gosh. Where is this all coming from?”
“I only exist for you.”
We stare at each other. I break the silence with: “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t follow.”
“What if you come home from work tomorrow and decide to play L&L instead of putting on your goggles and being a dad. Then the day after that, what if you make the same choice? Sven and I, we would just, just disappear? Like, forever?”
“I would never do that, sweetheart. You two are my whole life. I love you more than anything.”
“But what if that changes? I guess what I want to say is, I need a commitment from you. Some security. Can you understand that?”
I can’t understand that, not really. But I respond: “Of course I understand that, sweetheart. I’m just not sure what you are asking for here.”
Mal takes a breath then takes my hand. “I want to get married.”
My throat’s as dry as Tatooine. I take a slug of Dr. Pepper and repeat back: “You want to get married?”
She nods. “That’s what I said.”
I drag soggy palms across my sweatpants. “Sorry, I’ve just never considered…I mean, I love you. And I plan to be with you forever.”
“You plan to be with me forever.”
“I mean I will be with you forever.”
“Then marry me.” She leans forward and looks into my eyes. “Make me your wife.”
“But, well, how would I do that exactly?”
“You certify it, just like other upgrades.”
“How much…”
Mal lifts her hand to stop me. “Don’t ask that. Please babe, please just don’t. Marriage is how you can prove your commitment to me. You are committed to me, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am.”
“And you want me and little Sven to feel secure, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then I ask you, Julian Percival Abbott, will you marry me?” Her eyes drill into me, expectant, desperate. She needs an answer now.
“Of course I will.”
We embrace. I run my gloved hand over her back as she cries.
“You have to certify it,” she whispers in my ear.
I say the words: “I certify that I will marry you, Mallory.”
White text pops into my field of vision. This is new.
“What is this writing?” I ask, ending the hug.
“The standard terms and conditions. Basic marriage stuff. Scroll to the bottom and certify. I’m so happy, babe. I can’t wait to tell Sven.”
I scroll through columns of dense text. “There’s a lot here.”
“All standard stuff. You just certify at the bottom.”
I reach the end and select ‘certify.’ A familiar ding and a tap on the hand. That’s followed by a few seconds of Mendelssohn’s wedding march. A nice touch.
“Mrs. Mallory Abbott,” I say, smiling at my wife.
“My handsome husband,” she replies.
After dinner, we celebrate by watching the new episode of Star Trek: Spawn of Spock. Our favorite spinoff yet. I’m nodding off to sleep, but Mal wakes me up and leads me into our bedroom. We make love.
* * *
One Year Later
I should have read the fine print. I’ll never understand why Mallory needs or deserves alimony, especially given that she was the one who broke it off with me. I did get a 10 percent discount on my next relationship though.
This being my first breakup, it took a few months to process and recover. I read a thick stack of comics, re-watched Game of Thrones, and yes, I returned to the Lords & Legends universe with vigor. I understand these aren’t textbook coping techniques, but fantasy is cheaper than therapy. Soon enough though, it was time to log off the computer, invest in an upgraded pair of goggles, and return to the dating scene.
I’m seeing three new women now, and I’ll just say this: you don’t find ladies like these hanging around the middle school teachers’ lounge. First, there’s Marta. Soulful eyes and a beautiful spirit. She’s introduced me to new and delicious Latin foods, and I’ve introduced her to the Tolkien trilogy. Then there’s Claire, a bright-eyed redhead with a lilting giggle that is just adorable. And of course, Sasha, the long-legged Russian with an accent straight out of a Bond movie.
Not bad for a divorcee with a toddler from a previous marriage. This won’t last forever though. They’ve already started getting attached to me, and I’ll have to choose just one of these lovely ladies soon. But for now, I’m enjoying playing the field. I was a late bloomer and frankly, I have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll also need to see who jives best with little Sven. I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like, but I have visitation rights every other weekend—just $54.99 a month.
I still think about Mallory often. First loves stick with you that way, I guess. Mal made me realize—for the first time ever—that I have value. That I am a man worthy of companionship. It’s hard to overstate what that feels like after 45 years of self-shame and solitude. And look at me now. Honestly, I would never have had the gumption to even speak to a woman like Marta or Claire or Sasha were it not for my time with Mallory. So yes, it’s unfortunate the way things worked out with us, and sometimes I do get sad. But what a ride it was. Best money I ever spent.
I should have read the fine print. I’ll never understand why Mallory needs or deserves alimony, especially given that she was the one who broke it off with me. I did get a 10 percent discount on my next relationship though.
This being my first breakup, it took a few months to process and recover. I read a thick stack of comics, re-watched Game of Thrones, and yes, I returned to the Lords & Legends universe with vigor. I understand these aren’t textbook coping techniques, but fantasy is cheaper than therapy. Soon enough though, it was time to log off the computer, invest in an upgraded pair of goggles, and return to the dating scene.
I’m seeing three new women now, and I’ll just say this: you don’t find ladies like these hanging around the middle school teachers’ lounge. First, there’s Marta. Soulful eyes and a beautiful spirit. She’s introduced me to new and delicious Latin foods, and I’ve introduced her to the Tolkien trilogy. Then there’s Claire, a bright-eyed redhead with a lilting giggle that is just adorable. And of course, Sasha, the long-legged Russian with an accent straight out of a Bond movie.
Not bad for a divorcee with a toddler from a previous marriage. This won’t last forever though. They’ve already started getting attached to me, and I’ll have to choose just one of these lovely ladies soon. But for now, I’m enjoying playing the field. I was a late bloomer and frankly, I have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll also need to see who jives best with little Sven. I don’t get to see him as much as I’d like, but I have visitation rights every other weekend—just $54.99 a month.
I still think about Mallory often. First loves stick with you that way, I guess. Mal made me realize—for the first time ever—that I have value. That I am a man worthy of companionship. It’s hard to overstate what that feels like after 45 years of self-shame and solitude. And look at me now. Honestly, I would never have had the gumption to even speak to a woman like Marta or Claire or Sasha were it not for my time with Mallory. So yes, it’s unfortunate the way things worked out with us, and sometimes I do get sad. But what a ride it was. Best money I ever spent.
Patrick Childress is a writer and attorney living in Washington D.C. with his wife and two young sons. His fiction has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Eastern Iowa Review, and Isele Magazine.