It was her zebra print dress that made it really stand out. Such a common show of affection between lovers would’ve gone unnoticed on a canvas of blue jeans or black dress, but the affected pelt of this African wild horse was like a beacon illuminating the now almost heinous ass-grabbing you were putting on display. We continued our billiards game with difficulty. I tried to line up with the corner pocket while only a few feet away you drove your hand into the crack of her ass as if searching for change between couch cushions. Our doubles match began devolving into jokes and fits of laughter. The term ‘sensual safari’ was coined and I threatened to call the game warden. You kept squeezing as if checking for lumps or ripeness and I, distracted, was unable to sink any balls. I tried to appeal our team’s loss, blaming it on personal distress due to your disrespect of the wildlife, but the others weren’t having it.
You moaned and writhed in the bed across the aisle. The furry watermelon that is your gut shook and rolled between the open flaps of your hospital gown. Two little pills from the doctor later and you were relaxed, enough so to skip an introduction and dive right into the floor plan of your second house in El Salvador and recent job offer in Iceland. I nodded as you looked at my swollen hand and were reminded of your own being sliced nearly clean off by a piece of plate glass as a child. Then, spurred by the passing of a shapely woman in yoga pants, you shared many lurid details of past lovers and a recent personal victory over Hepatitis C. After a declaration of your annual income I was torn between a strange appreciation of what I hoped was honesty and a mild intrigue of its obvious embellishments. Then a nurse came and told me something I could be sure of: “It’s broken.”