Unpublished short fiction

’80s pop star Taylor Dayne sings that she “feels the night explode when we’re together” but that’s not how I feel about my wife. When we’re together I feel like the night is heating up some leftover ravioli in the microwave but the microwave misses spots and some of the raviolis are still cold but the night eats it anyway cause fuck it. It’s still food, even at room temperature, and the night consumes it without pleasure or passion. The night has low standards for its body now.
      My wife and I haven’t had sex in eight months. This doesn’t bother me. I mostly masturbate to Steamroom Honeys. It’s a basic porno.
      Now Taylor Dayne is gyrating her child-bearing hips on an old MTV music video with some skinny hairless boys dancing behind her. I watch Taylor Dayne’s mouth open and close as she sings “ex-plode” and it makes me explode.
      I don’t masturbate in the house, only in my workshop, which is just a fancy shed detached from the house, so my wife doesn’t catch me. I assume she would be upset.
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5,324 words