On Me

By David Erlewine

My son smiles and sniffs my face.  “Smell funny.”

I smile and put down the little hippo book.  “New cologne, bud, probably put too much on.  Hang here for a minute.”

I leave him in our master bed, locking the guest bathroom door.  The shower behind me should be ashamed for doing such a shitty job.  In the sink, I scrub facial soap into my fat face, close my eyes, and spray three puffs of Drakkar Noir.

In bed, my wife, done washing up, reads to my boy about hippos.

Neither looks up as I close the bedroom door.  I slide under the covers, listening to her quiet voice, for a minute sort of hoping she smells the hooker’s pussy.


David Erlewine writes because he speaks poorly.   Many of his co-workers know he is fucked up.
%d bloggers like this: