“Will you change the station, honey? Her shrill voice cut like a ginzu into his reverie.

“I hate this bridge…” Why can’t she do it herself?—the bitch. He bites off a hangnail and chews.

“What did you say? All these people honking--I can’t stand it. We’re not going anywhere, but they honk. Stupid. There, that’s better. I love the Beach Boys.”

God, how can she like that CRAP? There had to be a better life than this. Somewhere, someone has it way better than he does.

Maybe some guy, age fifty-two, like him, is on the beach this very minute, sipping on something with an umbrella.

And beside him is not a sorry specimen of a woman with a dated hairdo, wrinkled face, and sagging tits, but a luscious, dewy young thing in a skimpy bikini smiling at him, not with yellowed crooked teeth, but straight pearly ones, not with an obnoxious voice, but a sweet sexy one, not with bad taste in music, but a hip glamourpuss who digs the gnarl of heavy metal, not a woman in drag who clips coupons in her spare time, but a babe who massages him and gets brazilian wax or whatever, not a bore whose idea of a great time is going to smelly gardens, but the babe, after getting waxed, who fucks his brains out till he goes into a coma, not an idiot who hangs hideous prints in gawdawful plastic gold frames, but a sophisticated woman with great taste in real art whatever great real art is, not like his wife who reads romance shit, but someone smart an interesting who can talk about politics and football, not someone whose ass goes over the toilet seat, instead a goddess with a deriere he’d want to bite into.

And the guy probably doesn’t have a beer belly, drinking problem, thinning hair, and shitty job, either.

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