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A flood of newspapers and weeklies fills the valley between us on the bed. My wife coughs in that way that signals she is going to read something to me:
Middle-aged male, balding but bearded, pudgy, likes ukuleles, dogs, bad jokes and recreational sex seeks someone of the opposite sex who might be interested. No tattoos. Knowing all the words to Randy Newman's "Political Science" a plus.
She puts down the paper and smiles. "That could be you." It's not, I assure her and wonder aloud why she's reading the personal ads. She grabs my ass in away I had almost forgot and before I know what's what I'm strumming ukes and rescuing puppies from the pound and telling ribald jokes ... Afterwards, she manages to sing the first verse of "Political Science" before we both crack up.
the old dog pants
in the moonlight