Long Sentence

She was not interested in expressing love and affection. To her way of thinking, and her mother's way of thinking, which was backed up by the Church of the Risen and Living Messiah, love and affection was expressed by Michael going to work and earning a living to support his family. Pamela's love and affection was demonstrated by providing meals, cleaning the home, and giving birth to their children.

Three weeks after their wedding, Pamela was ovulating. For three days, Michael was allowed to penetrate her and hump until ejaculating into her. He'd learned from the honeymoon and brought a tube of lubricant to the bedroom.

After the fifth month, Michael had an epiphany of sorts. If he was indeed unfortunate enough to get his wife pregnant, he was stuck with her, stuck with providing for her and whatever progeny they may have. Since he was already quite used to whacking off for much needed sexual relief, it was no hardship avoiding her on her peak fertile days.

Michael simply began coming home 'drunk' and reeking of cigar smoke on her fertile days. He also began to be just as critical and judgmental as her and her parents. But, instead of criticizing the rest of the world, Michael began criticizing Pamela and Pamela's parents, Pamela's religion and Pamela's God.

(In secret, Michael begged God's forgiveness and understanding.)

"Michael, we, tonight, we need to have intercourse," Pamela said frostily.

"Wow, that tone of voice sure does make me horny for you," Michael said. "Your momma teach you that? No wonder your parents only had the one kid."

Pamela did not respond. After a long glare, she led the way to the bedroom.

"Fine, fine, let's get this shit done with," Michael sighed, dropping his shorts to the floor.

Pamela hiked up her dress to just above her unruly thatch of pubic hair. Michael thought it ridiculous; he had been married to the beautiful red head for seven months and had no idea if the carpet matched the drapes.

Michael climbed onto the bed. Pamela spread her legs and stared up at the dark ceiling. Michael positioned himself between her spread legs.

"Oh, holy shit!" Michael coughed out in shock.

"What?" Pamela demanded, startled by Michael's outburst. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, oh my God! Augh! AUGH! God damn! What the, Jesus, when, When's the last time you scrubbed that pussy?" Michael coughed out, reeling from the bed.

"What? It, it doesn't smell, I, I washed it last night," Pamela protested.

"The fuck it doesn't smell," Michael declared, pulling his jeans on again. "Like hell I'm sticking my cock anywhere near that toxic landfill you call a twat. Augh! Oh my God, think I'm going puke..."

Michael left the bedroom, still complaining loudly. He slammed the door of the hall bathroom and almost fell to the floor laughing.

In the morning, Michael stated firmly, he was going to St. Patrick's in Elgee. She and her parents could go to the Church of the living and risen hubcaps, but he was going to a real church.

After the Mass, Michael went to the Home Depot in Elgee and bought foam rubber stripping. While Pamela and Katherine and George were listening to the used car salesman butcher and twist the word of God, Michael was placing stripping around the door frame of his bedroom. As satisfying as it was to hear Pamela slam the door, he did not want the door frame splintering from the constant abuse.

"She breaks it, sure as shit, she'll have her numb nuts father over here to break it even worse," Michael muttered as he used fingers to smooth out the soft stripping.

Michael? Michael, we're invited to my parents' for lunch," Pamela called out as she entered the house.

"Oh, thank God," Michael said with false cheerfulness. "I mean, after you ruined whatever that was last night, I'm starving."

That declaration did not make the car trip from his house to the house of George and Katherine a pleasant journey. The only music Pamela would allow, the only music that was not laced with sinful messages was Classical so Michael endured a Wagner piece from driveway to driveway.

"See? See," Michael said, pointing to the fresh oil spot on George's driveway. "That's why I don't want your Daddy parking his piece of shit on my clean driveway."

"Pamela, wasn't that just a powerful message today?" Katherine asked, a grotesque façade of a smile creasing her face.

"Oh my stars yes," Pamela agreed.

"Oh, but I'm sure the message you received was um, adequate," George said to Michael, his condescension apparent.

"Actually, yes it was. The first reading warned against false prophets, those that masquerade as messengers of God's word," Michael said. "The second reading declared that God shall bring justice to those that pay Him false homage while using His word to manipulate and use His children. Then the Gospel, the Good news told of Jesus driving the money changers from the temple, from the house of His Father."

Katherine had George say an overly wrought blessing over the meal. Michael stared hard at George as he droned on and on, asking God to bless the meal, asking that it nourish their bodies as He nourished their souls.

"In fact," Michael smiled as they chewed their way through Katherine's overcooked pork chops," "The last time I heard your minister, or whatever he is, I couldn't help but think..."

He took a sip o Katherine's weak, far too sweet iced tea. He made a face and put the glass down onto the table with a loud thump.

"Oh. Um. Never mind," Michael smiled at the pinched faces of George, Katherine, and Pamela as they waited for him to finish his statement.

"But I am sure your minister, or whatever he is, is leading many to the gates of Heaven," George sneered.

"Hmm? Oh, honestly, I wouldn't know. Over the centuries, we haven't really kept score," Michael said. "But thank goodness for your minister, or whatever he is. Because, I am sure there is a shortage of self-righteous, sanctimonious horse's asses in Heaven. Katherine, I see where Pamela learned her skills in the kitchen."

"I've had just about enough of..." George thundered.

Michael smirked; he'd heard Katherine's kick against George's shin, nudging the man to assert himself, urging the man to defend their church against Michael's scathing remarks, defend her cooking against Michael's declaration. Michael pushed the dry pork chops and soggy green beans away and stood.

"Me too. I've had just about enough of poorly cooked food, self-aggrandizing braying and posturing, and ignorant conversations. Coming, wife?" Michael asked.

Michael did not wait to see if his wife was following him or not. He left the house, mentally flipping a coin between Taco Bell's drive-through, and Popeye's Fried Chicken.

"Popeye's," Michael said aloud as the front door of the Johnson's home slammed shut.

"I have never been so embarrassed in all my life," Pamela screamed, jerking her car door open.

"Really? You mean, no one else has ever told them just how fucking pathetic they are? What you want from Popeye's?" Michael asked, switching the station to KLGE for Classic Country.

"We're not listening to that," Pamela snarled and turned the radio off.

Michael did too good a job with the weather stripping around the bedroom door. The moment they arrived home, Pamela slammed the bedroom door shut but it bounced open again and struck her in her still screaming face.

Michael hugged Pamela to himself as he held an ice pack to her bruised cheek. For that moment in time, her heavy breasts pressed against him, her slim back and long mane of hair under his fingertips, Michael remembered why he'd believed himself to be in love with the girl.

"Thank you, Michael," she sniffled.

"No more slamming the door," Michael said.

And, just like that, Pamela remembered why she had a bruised cheek. Pamela remembered why she'd slammed the door. Pamela again turned into a loudly complaining banshee.

"So, we still need to fuck? I mean, them eggs still dropping?" Michael asked and again, the door of the bedroom was firmly shut.

"Don't be too proud of yourself, Chopin," Michael told himself as he unlocked the refrigerator in the garage.

"You'd been really smart, never would have married the bitch in the first place," Michael said, retrieving an ice cold Gratchley's Beer from the refrigerator.

"Where did you get that?" Pamela gasped, horrified at the can of beer in his hand when Michael entered the home again.

"Those two lovely ladies next door," Michael smiled. "Oh, they invited us over for supper tomorrow night. Clothing optional. Want to go?"

"I'd rather die," Pamela screeched, scandalized.

"Oh. Okay. I know they'll be disappointed," Michael said.

Michael drank the rest of his beer. He rinsed the can then put the empty can into the recycling bin.

"So, ready to give up the pussy? I mean, you did wash it, right? Hmm; ever think of bleach? That might kill the smell," Michael said, unzipping his pants.

Again, the door of the bedroom was shut. At nine that evening, Michael yelled through the door that he needed access to his clothing for work the following day. Sullenly, Pamela reminded him that, yet again, they'd somehow missed the opportune time to procreate.

"Yeah? It's my fault you keep locking me out of my own bedroom?" Michael asked.

Pamela said nothing as Michael stripped down to his boxers. She looked away from his lewd display of hairy chest and muscled arms and thick, hairy legs.

"You know, maybe if we practiced fucking on days you're not ovulating, maybe you wouldn't be so God damned frigid," Michael suggested. "God knows you need practice."

Pamela stormed from the bedroom. Michael shrugged as he prepared for bed.

"We need to get a better mattress for the guest room," Pamela ordered the following morning.

"No, you need to quit running out of our bedroom when I point out what a dead fuck you are," Michael calmly said. "Seriously? Your Bible says you're supposed to just lie there and wait for me to do all the work? Hey, Pam, how about shoving a few ice cubes up there so I can really feel like I'm fucking a corpse?"

"I, I cannot believe," Pamela hissed hatefully. "I know, where, where is the Christian man I fell in love with?"

"You nailed him to the cross by being such a cold, hateful, controlling bitch," Michael shrugged. "By the way, has your cooking gotten worse on purpose? You didn't cook this bad when we first got married, did you?"

"And, hey, here's an idea. While we're waiting on you to get knocked up, how 'bout you maybe see about getting a job? That car of yours wasn't free, you know. Neither is the gas or the insurance," Michael suggested to his wife's retreating back. "See if First Fidelity will give you your job back, huh?"

"Like clockwork," Terry smiled as Michael Chopin entered the lounge four weeks later.

"Uh huh. Last time, that woman, um, Whitney?" Michael asked.

"Uh huh; she's a beauty, huh?" Terry smiled. "But, I'm afraid she bats for a different team."

"Hmm? Oh, oh, no, no, I know she's gay," Michael smiled.

"But she is nice to look at. And her girlfriend's a real cutie too," Terry said.

"Yep. Anyway, she came in last time and ordered an oak tree? What's an oak tree? I've never heard of that drink," Michael asked.

"An Oakleaf," Terry laughed, pointing to the large decanter behind the bar. "Comes from a stash of whiskey some guy found in Oakleaf, Texas. Whiskey's over a hundred years old. Twenty five dollars a shot."

"Why not? Give me one," Michael smiled.

"Sip it. Don't just toss it back like the bar brand," Terry suggested, pouring the whiskey for the customer.

"I, oh damn! Well, yes sir! This, this is unbelievable," Michael said, tasting the aged whiskey.

"So, what's going on?" Terry asked as Michael did his ritual of wetting his finger, then wetting his clothes with the residue of whiskey.

"'Lips that touch wine shall never touch mine,'" Michael declared in a harsh and disdainful voice.

"Okay," Terry said.

"So, come home reeking of whiskey, damn, that, that really is good whiskey," Michael continued, pulling the cheap cigar out of his pocket. "Smelling like an ashtray..."

"Mm hmm," Terry nodded.

"Then, spend the rest of the weekend, making sure she stays as pissed off as possible," Michael laughed. "Which by the way, really isn't very hard to do."

"Had one like that," Terry agreed. "God damn, bitch could spend money faster than they print it. Course, she didn't work; that was beneath her."

"Name wasn't Katherine Johnson, by any chance?" Michael smiled.

"Hmm? No, no it was Bernice," Terry laughed.

"So, what'd you do?" Michael asked.

"Took stock. Was busting my ass, I mean, really busting my ass at Prentiss Chevrolet, hustling, hustling, sell the next car, sell the next truck. Guy can't afford it? Tough shit. Not my problem, sell the next car. Why? Just to keep her fat ass in the latest shit Abdul's and Babbage's sells."

Terry shook his head. He looked around the deserted bar for a moment.

"Heard a bunch of guys saying how it was cheaper to keep her," Terry said. "And, yeah, good God did I pay out the ass get rid of her. Quit that job; God damn, I hated sales. Started out as a bar tender, and guess what? Twenty five years later? I'm still just a bar tender."

"But you're happier," Michael mused to himself.

"No comparison," Terry agreed.

Arriving home, going through his drunkard routine, breathing his foul cigar breath in Pamela's face had the desired results for Friday night. Michael almost felt bad on Saturday morning; he could tell Pamela was making an effort to improve her cooking. Her cooking had always been simple fare and she did tend to overcook much of the meat, but of late, she'd really been putting forth an effort.

"I, um, I, well, this, this is um, interesting," Michael said as he made a show of forcing down a swallow of the bacon and cheddar omelet. "Um, what were you trying to make?"

Michael did feel bad as Pamela tearfully fled the kitchen. He got the jar of salsa from the refrigerator and dredged the omelet through the spicy condiment.

With a well-timed insult, a well-placed 'God Damn' and 'Jesus Christ' here and there, Michael managed to keep his seed from entering Pamela's womb. On Monday morning, as he chewed his way through a can of ready-made cinnamon rolls, Pamela did broach the idea of marriage counseling.

"Yes, yes, and yes," Michael agreed enthusiastically. "God damn, about fucking time."

"Michael! Language!" Pamela chided him.

"But uh, when we got back from that shitty honeymoon; God damn, whoever heard of going on a fucking honeymoon and not fucking? I said we needed counseling and you were all like, 'We don't need that. We just need to pray.' What happened?"

"Well, Reverend Smith said he can see us at..." Pamela said.

"No, not just no but fuck no," Michael said. "That ignorant piece of shit is not a certified counselor and I will not waste one God damned minute of my precious time with that sanctimonious fraud."

Through his insurance at work, Michael could arrange counseling with Dr. Sylvia Hooperstien, Dr. Melanie Leblanc, Dr. Gary St. Martin or Dr. Jackie Trahan. Michael sent this information to Pamela and got no response. He had not expected any response.

"We do not need to see any of these people," Pamela snapped when Michael returned home that evening.

"You know, Pam, I hoped, I, I really had hope that you meant it," Michael sighed.

"And quit calling me 'Pam,' you know I hate that," Pamela shrilled.

"I thought, finally, she's willing to work on this," Michael said, stripping off his suit jacket.

"I am, I do want to..." Pamela protested as Michael continued removing his clothing.

"We have a problem, Pam. We have a problem. But it is not a spiritual problem," Michael sighed stripping down to his boxers.

"All problems can be..." Pamela began to argue, averting her eyes from her husband's near-nakedness.

"We do not have a spiritual problem. We do not have a Biblical problem. We do not have a prayer problem," Michael sighed. "What we have is a fucking problem. And the problem is, you don't know how to fuck."

"Well, maybe you don't know how to get me in the mood to, to, to..." Pamela snapped, but could not bring herself to say the vulgar word.

"And that's what a counselor, a certified counselor, one that is trained to work with couples could assist us with," Michael said, attempting to hug his wife.

Pamela stood, frozen stiff as her nearly nude husband wrapped his arms around her. She flinched at his touch. She closed her eyes against his nudity.

"I do love you. I married you because I truly believed we would, we could be happy together," Michael begged, attempting to kiss her slack mouth.

"Well, how can we be happy, if you won't even meet with Reverend...?" Pamela crowed, assuming she had the upper hand in the argument.

""Fine, fine," Michael sighed. "We'll meet with Dr. Fraudkenstein. Now, I don't smell anything burning; you're not cooking tonight?"

"He is not a fraud," Pamela snapped.

"The fuck he's not. Now, come on, are you going to try to cook tonight or what?" Michael asked.

Michael paused in between bites of his frozen pizza to nod his agreement that they would meet with Reverend Smith in forty minutes. Before he could say anything else, Pamela beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen.

"Why do you have that?" Pamela asked when Michael carried a well-worn Bible into the sales office of Reverend Smith.

"What? A Bible? Uh, we're meeting with a man of God, aren't we?" Michael asked.

Before Reverend Smith could even wedge his bulk into his comfortable chair, Michael asked him for his credentials. Pamela blushed in anger and embarrassment and Reverend Smith tried to spread enough manure to cover his lack of credentials.

"So. None. You've no degree in counseling, no certification in psychology, nothing. Yet you somehow feel qualified to offer your services as a marital counselor?" Michael asked.

"All I have is what God has given me," Reverend Smith intoned smugly.

"Fine, fine, let's go, then. Let's hear what God has to say about this marriage," Michael said flatly.

Reverend Smith had a 'cheat sheet' of sorts and referred to the notes of certain Scriptures. After the second time Michael looked up the Bible's chapter and verse and corrected Reverend Smith's interpretations, Reverend Smith actually broke a sweat.

"Still think you're qualified to offer marital advice?" Michael asked coldly. "Oh, and uh, what happened to your first marriage? Or your second marriage? How about your third? I know right now you're separated from Clarissa; she went on back to Texas, didn't she?"

Michael stood. He did not wait to see if Pamela stood; he just turned and left the sales office. He exited the mobile building and smiled as he waved a prospective customer away from his BMW.

"Sorry, folks, this one's not for sale," Michael said as he hit the key fob.

"Aw, damn," the male customer said, smiling. "You sure?"

"'Fraid so. Had to drive all the way up to Paulton's certified BMW Dealership to get the Ruby Red color I wanted," Michael said. "Landry's in Hardinton didn't have the red model."

"Landry's?" the woman said to her husband.

"Yes, Sweetheart," the man said without argument.

Pamela got into the passenger seat. She sniffled as they pulled out of the parking lot. By the time they reached their house, she was sobbing uncontrollably. Michael sighed as he helped his wife from the car. He removed her shoes and lay her on their bed. Then he called Katherine to come and tend to her daughter.

"Why? What'd you do?" Katherine demanded.

"You mean, before or after I beat her?" Michael asked. "Believe it or not Katherine, not everything is my fault."

"Move your oil dripping van off my driveway," Michael ordered George. "Want a beer?"