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He married his high school sweetheart in a ceremony that took place in a fancy hotel downtown. It was the first time he'd ever been downtown. It was also the first time he'd ever been to a wedding.

He lived most of his life in the same small town just outside the city. It was remarkable that two vastly different worlds could exist side-by-side--that he could literally drive five miles east and everything moved faster and people didn't talk the same.

She was a manager at a very notorious fast-food chain and he worked nights at a shipping warehouse. They got by OK because neither of them wanted much and they only bought what they needed.

His job was in the city--though closer to where he lived than the fancy downtown where he got married. He sometimes seemed out of place there because he wore a camo trucker hat and he had the wide-eyed look of someone not used to the fast pace of a city. He wasn't slow and he wasn't stupid. But he had trouble keeping up in conversations because he didn't feel that he was given enough time to think about what he wanted to say before he was expected to say something. So, he said very little. He laughed a lot and tried to respond always in the affirmative.

"Ha! Yep!"

"That's right!"

The people who worked at the warehouse mostly ignored him. There were simply too many other workers. You talked to who you worked with and everyone else was just a passing face. Of the people he worked with, he got along best with the women. There were two women in particular who talked to him. They were both married and in their thirties--ten to fifteen years older than him. They both married young because they got pregnant. They didn't get married to avoid a scandal or because they felt morally obligated to marry because they were going to have children but they married instead because they wanted something resembling a good home-life for their kids. He could understand this but he didn't like it.

He was never particularly comfortable around them or talking to them because he suspected they liked him and he didn't feel comfortable being liked by someone that he didn't like back. They approached him one night, giggling. The work was light that night but he tried to look busy so that they might keep the conversation short--say whatever provocative thing they had to say to him so that he could laugh sheepishly and then they'd go away. One of them began to say something but couldn't finish what she was saying because she was giggling so much. The other one playfully slapped her as if to say "hold yourself together," though she was laughing just as much and just as uncontrollably. The one who had first begun speaking took a quick breath then looked him, trying to appear serious. "Have you ever--." They both resumed their laughing fit. "OK, seriously," she said. "We have a question for you." He made a conscious effort to maintain eye contact and appear delighted to talk to them. He didn't know why he wanted them to think he was grateful that they were talking to him. But he did. He always did. Even if he didn't like it at all. "My friend and I--." Here she nudged the other with a quick jab into the chest. "Cut it out. What's wrong with you? Anyway, we were wondering if you've ever had a threesome." Instantly, he blushed. He felt a confused surge of adrenaline--the impetus he needed to either walk away or try to hold his ground. "No, why?" He said, good-naturedly. "Have you?" They both checked each other. "Well, I can't speak for her. I haven't. But we were just wondering." "Yeah, what would you say if we asked you to have a threesome with us," the other one said perhaps too aggressively, snorting half the sentence. Her friend nudged her again and they both walked off giggling. He heard one of them say something like, "I can't believe you--" before they were too far away for him to make out the rest.

That night he went home to a house that was dark and quiet. His wife was in bed. In thirty minutes she'd have to get up for work. The youngest child--still an infant--was in the bedroom with her in a second-hand crib that had been mangled as a result of being transported so many times to so many different locations. Looking at the crib he felt bad that he couldn't afford something in better condition--a new crib, not yet falling apart. He heard a faint rustling in the back room where his oldest slept. He opened the door and found the child reading by the nightlight at the end of his bed. He was crouched in a position that looked uncomfortable--the sacrifice he'd made to read by the dim little plug-in light. "Hey, dad!" he said excitedly, though still in a whisper. "I'm reading this awesome book. I'll let you borrow it when I'm done. It's a real page-turner, dad!" The child had just learned how to read this year. His enthusiasm was great and he made a habit of forcing his dad to read every book he finished. He felt like he was doing a service by letting his dad "borrow" these books, even if his dad was the one who bought them and who could have conceivably read them anytime he wanted to. He was proud that his son already liked to read so much, especially because neither he nor his wife were big readers. "I'm going to go to bed," he said. "Have you been to bed yet?"
"Yeah," his son said. "I slept a little. But I was too excited because I wanted to finish this book. I'm telling you, dad: it's a real page-turner."
"OK. Well, just stay quiet like you have been until your mom gets up. OK? She should be up in a little bit. You want to turn a better light on?"
"I would but the lamp is too bright and even if I shut my door it still leaks into the hall and then mom might wake up."
"That's OK," his father said. "Just keep your door shut. If mom gets upset, I'll just tell her I told you you could turn the light on."
His father shut the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark before attempting to navigate the hall. He went to the bathroom and stared vacantly at the wall. There should have been a towel hanging where he was looking, just below the towel-rack. But there wasn't. His wife must have taken it down and done the started the laundry that night. When he was finished he went into the kitchen and turned the coffeepot on, debating with himself whether or not he should have any before going to bed. Caffeine made him tired--more tired than when he didn't have it. But he woke up feeling anxious--the feeling he figured most people got after drinking drinks with caffeine in them--as if it waited to attack.