“Winning…” he said in a hushed sing-song voice as he stubbed out the roach and knocked back the watery dregs of a rye on the rocks. No need for the hushed tones, after all he was home alone on this wintery Tuesday at 1:26PM. His wife, along with most responsible adults, was at work. A hot, protracted, shower was next up on the docket – alongside binge-watching a cable TV show on Netflix, a romp involving himself and an adult website, and several actual important items which would get bumped yet again to tomorrow’s schedule.
His daily foray into the fleshy underbelly of the world wide web yielded an amusing thought: “That site described them as mature women, but the things they’re doing…I don’t think so!” But there was nobody around to share this quip with. It would be lost on the cat. And maybe a retraction is in order: porn is hardly the “underbelly” of the web. It’s one of the main limbs, a fully-articulated prime mover.
As his buzz was cresting (always a bittersweet thing since it’s all downhill from there), he tuned in and began nodding to the droning toms-and-tambourine beat of “Venus in Furs” and cranked the volume on his tiny kitchen stereo. Waves of psychedelic guitar and woozy strings washed over him, as Lou Reed croaked about tasting whips and bleeding and mistresses.
Through the window, in the woods beyond the perimeter of his yard, he became vaguely aware of dark shapes moving about. Vultures? Perhaps not. Large wild turkeys, cloaked in deep brown-black plumage in stark contrast to the fresh white powder smothering the land, were present. Several skulked about and would disappear behind the bare trees now and again, possibly to resurface later, feverishly, in his anxious, fearful dreams.