Hektor unzips his pants, letting them drop to the floor.
He recalls the first time he and Deborah made love. Loud squelching sounds echoed as they writhed, slipping and sliding up and down creamy Naugahyde seats, the afternoon they christened his new Chevrolet.
Now, climbing up onto the table, dove grey vinyl grabs his rosy poultry skin, reproducing that same juicy, sucking sound. It doesn’t want to let him go.
Deborah wants ‘proof’. “If you love me” she repeats. Is she just teasing, testing maybe? He’s running around in circles trying to figure out which. There is still time to back out he reminds himself.
He looks down at it, a fish flapping on a hot deck straining for a molecule of water. Not a pretty sight. He feels feverish, but not from any flu bug. It is the image of the guillotine he can’t get out of his mind.
He looks around for a swig, licking dry lips. No chance of rum. They don’t keep anything but Marcaine and Xylocaine on site, the nurse announces. Her silky fingers press his flesh flat against bone. He feels bitter, but he is not going to beg her to stop. He should have done that with Deborah.
She prepares a 27-gauge, 1.5-in needle ready to insert.
It’s only a circumcision, Deborah reminds him.
He’s not pissed, he tells her. But he decides he’s going to buy himself a new truck.