Michael valued his cashiering job at CVS as if he were an investment banker. His dream was to work at the national office, despite my insistence that I would rather be dead than live in Woonsocket-where-the-fuck-is-that, Rhode Island. Every night, he ironed his employee polo, then used my straightening iron around the collar for an added crispness. I sat cross-legged on our bed, watching him spray a fine, even mist of distilled water over the navy cotton, following it with the smooth, sweeping movement of the iron. Michael would recite all of the current sales, as if I gave a damn that the Fleet Adult Enema Twin-Pack was 50 cents off. I feigned interest and focused instead on the tautness of the muscles in his ironing arm.
His voice trailed off, but I didn’t need to hear the rest. How dare “Two-Timing” Tim bring his newfound God into our lives? Michael rolled away from me and began to breathe heavily. I offered this God a deal, praying for sleep in exchange for chastity. As Michael’s breathing turned to snores, I begged.
