Page 67 of The Finish Line

Our progression is slow all right because, day by day, she’s fucking killing me gradually.

Twenty-one days she’s held out on me, on letting me in.

Twenty-one days she’s denied me entrance fully back into her heart.

Twenty-one days I’ve fucked my fist.

Twenty-one days of aching when I hold her while she sleeps in neck-to-ankle flannel pajamas.

Twenty-one fucking days.

Being the tactical man I am, I decided it’s time to come up with a plan.

An average Joe’s plan. Innocent enough.

Wine, dinner, seduction, connection.

Daily, she’s managed to curb me at every turn. But somehow, someway, I will succeed in wrestling her back into some sort of submission.

Resisting the urge to punch the happy-go-lucky fucker who passes me, I smack a double stack of toilet paper into my cart.

All we need is the right setting to share one perfect night, and for that, I’m pulling out my entire arsenal.

It’s all wrong, this space she so easily puts between us... we need something, something I can’t pinpoint to get us back to where we were. When my phone rumbles in my pocket, I scramble to answer, hoping it is some sort of sign, anything to help me get past this crossroads.

“Talk to me,” I wheeze out, glaring at another happy husband who takes one look at my face and turns to walk in the opposite direction.

Sean chuckles in greeting. “Just checking in, man. How’s it going?”

“How’s it going?” I can hear the contempt in my reply. “How’s. It. Going?” I grit out. “Well, at the moment, I’m just crossing off the honey-do the Mrs. left for me and picking up toilet paper. And tonight, after I’ve scooped up enough dog shit, she might just reward me with a kiss goodnight after another day of pointless fucking living.”

Collective laughter echoes from the other end of the line, and I press the phone to my ear, speaking through clenched teeth. “You have me on speaker?”

“Sorry, man, couldn’t resist.”

“Fuck you all,” I snap, as peals of laughter ring out at my expense.

“Don’t hang up. We’re here for you, man,” Russell belts out through a dying chuckle. “And don’t get the cheap shit, chicks hate that.”

I stare down at the label and second-guess my choice. “It’s Charmin.”

“You’re good,” Sean pipes up before I hear the door of the garage close.

“All right, talk to me.”

“She’s bleeding me dry, Sean. My tolerance, my patience, all of it.”

“It’s only been a few weeks. Hang in there.”

“I have no idea what to do with myself here. I have no idea how to be... normal.”

“There is no such thing, and you know it.”

“Oh, but there is—” I briefly scan the store and lower my voice—“and I’m living amongst them.” I pick up a box and scrutinize it before tossing six like it into my cart. “But don’t worry, I plan to hammer and fucking nail my way back in by the stroke of midnight.”

Another extended chuckle on his end.

“I’m so glad I amuse you.”

---