Don’t confess. Let the little fucker watch Dave Portnoy gamble on the family iPad. Have a canned margarita. Have two. Go for a cruise in the ’97. Roll the windows down. Breathe in sharp air. Ahh. Don’t get pulled over this time. Pull over by the dive bar just off Exit 13. The one where you met her. The mistress. Not the wife. Hear the phone vibrate. Don’t pick it up. Pick up a Pabst. Don’t talk to the regular. Become the regular. Switch things up. Pay for a song on the half-broken jukebox. Desperado. The Eagles. Perfection for a half-broken man. Why don’t you come to your senssesss. Don’t think about that. What’s done is done. Money was offered. Tears were shed. Fate is coming. Fast. It’s not pretty. An old-fashioned karmic uprising is in order. Order an old fashioned to smooth the karmic uprising. The bartender won’t ask who’s driving. Never does. A cheery family of five stops in for lunch. Since when do they serve food here? To families? Things become uncomfortable. Fast. Ditch the tab. Drop a twenty. Start the car. Hit the road. The road back to the wife who knows what’s been done. Who knows there’s no undoing it. Or is there? Give her a call. Tell her there are certain things that certain people certainly shouldn’t know. So that all this love can still work out. Speak. Fast. In a loud voice. Louder. Louder! Tell the truth. Just kidding. Crash the car. That’s what leverage takes. Wait for the ambulance to come. The kid is probably still glued to that damn screen. Dave is probably down by this point in the afternoon. But he’ll probably come back. No. He will come back. He always rallies.
DownsFilms