Crack the Spine - Issue 176

Second, she knew she had to stop checking out photos of babies. Celebrity babies. Ex-husband babies. The latest from the Prince and his wife. So what if they were reproducing? Copulating, frankly. It was a waste of human time. Even if our genetics required it. Even if our hormones were set.

Rising from the bench-seat, Dr. Henderson snatched down her phone—she kept it in a padded foam-insulate case. She lengthened the antenna—a cumbrous device that was required for signal down here—and hastily clicked on FIND. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered. Why am I doing this? If I can’t find peace at the center of the Earth, who can, she earnestly reflected.

There he was, Walter, in sunny San Diego, playing catching with one of his sons. Oh, and there goes The Bitch now, eating ice cream with their youngest child, a toddler who’s barely old enough to cup the damn cone. And there it goes, running down his arm. And what’s this, a neighbor, a delectable blonde, giving looks from her perch on the lawn. Oh, it appears she’s just visiting. Yes, raking some leaves. I wonder what The Adulteress thinks. Excuse me, his wife.

The new Mrs. Ah, yes, there she goes, the neighboress, disappearing back into her house, probably to bake muffins for her family, which she’ll undoubtedly, excellently, cook.

And there goes the fuckaroo, Walter, grabbing his mitt from the lawn. It appears that he’s following her. How could that be? He’s bidding adieu to his wife, and now he’s approaching the garage, where it looks like he’s loading the trunk. Going to baseball practice, I’m sure. Or maybe a dicey motel.

Dr. Henderson could practically taste the damn muffins burning to a crisp in their pan.